


Garnet

by meetmeatthecoda



Series: Facets [1]
Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Drama, F/M, Humor, Hurt, Mini fics, Romance, a variety show of sorts, and sick fics, featuring dialogue prompts, ficlets if you will, from tumblr, lil bit of everything at some point i'm sure, prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2018-12-24 04:33:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 25,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12005103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meetmeatthecoda/pseuds/meetmeatthecoda
Summary: Part 1 of the Facets series. A collection of sick fics and dialogue prompt-driven mini fics from over on tumblr. Each chapter is a new prompt. Content will vary but ratings should all be T and under. All Lizzington.





	1. Chapter 1

**10\. “Come here.”**

Red sighs as he collapses on the sofa, kicking off his Italian hand-made shoes like they are cheap sneakers and rubbing his face with both hands.

What an exhausting day.

Lizzie had called around nine, saying they were dead in the water with their current blacklister, and asked for his help. Unable to deny her, and also wanting to have the truly despicable number 45 in custody as soon as possible, he had wracked his brains for ways to help. Unfortunately, the only thing he could come up with was chatting with one of his less pleasant associates. De Marco was the only one Red could imagine would have any intel on this blacklister. Whether he would share it with him was another story completely. 

De Marco is an interesting individual, a recluse, a hermit, living by himself in the wilderness of New Jersey, so naturally he is a little unhinged. He can be perfectly pleasant, of course, but if caught on the wrong day, Red knows from experience that he will emerge from his cabin on a rampage, guns blazing. It is nothing Red can’t handle with Dembe by his side, of course, but he doesn’t want Lizzie anywhere near someone so unpredictable, just in case. 

So Red had relayed his plans to Lizzie, for once not holding back anything, wanting her to know the probable danger of this contact. He made a point to stress that she, or anyone else from the task force, should not try to follow him under any circumstances. De Marco is too volatile and they should wait for Red to contact them with anything he learned.

She had agreed reluctantly, in a rather odd tone of voice, but Red had had no time to linger on it. Besides, Lizzie’s mood had been anything but consistent lately.

So he and Dembe had set off at once to northern New Jersey to pay a visit to old De Marco. He was rather uncooperative at first – perhaps Red should have called ahead – but after a few knives were thrown his way, Red managed to calm him down and obtain the information the task force needed. 

On the long drive home, Red had called Cooper with the time sensitive intel, wary of Lizzie’s strange mood and wanting to spare her the usual role of middleman this once.

They just arrived back at their current safe house and Dembe went straight to bed. A day full of driving and dodging bullets from a paranoid maniac tends to take a toll. Red can certainly sympathize. 

With a weary glance at his watch, Red sees that it is nearing midnight. He supposes he should head to bed as well, exhausted as he is, but he still feels that strange restlessness that comes from being confined in a car for a long period of time. 

Perhaps he’ll make some warm milk, that usually makes him sleepy, and it’s certainly better for him than scotch, yes, perhaps he’ll –

Knock, knock. 

Red frowns. Who could that possibly be at quarter to twelve on a Tuesday night? Suddenly wide awake and on alert, he grabs his gun from it lies discarded on the side table and clicks off the safety, padding silently to the door. He takes a quick glance through the peephole and feels a jolt go through him.

Lizzie is standing there.

He quickly flicks the safety back on the gun and places it on the entryway table, unlocking and opening the door at the same time. 

“Lizzie, what a pleasant – “

“Where have you been?!”

And before he knows it, Lizzie is pushing her way past him and into his safe house and what is going on?

“I’m sorry?”

“Oh, don’t play stupid, Red. You call and tell me all about this dangerous god-awful blacklister and then casually go on your merry way to meet with him and then you don’t even call me afterwards? You call Cooper instead? What was I supposed to take from that? That you were injured and didn’t want to worry me? Or that you simply didn’t care enough to let me know you were okay?”

Lizzie finally stops to take a breath but Red can do nothing but blink stupidly at her, stunned. He had no idea she would be so worried about him. Frankly, he didn’t think she would care much at all. She had made it very clear in the past that she cares very little for his safety. Why should this time be different? There are not many people left in this world that care about his well-being and she has the least reason of anyone. He certainly can’t blame her. 

Red frowns.

He can see tension making Lizzie’s shoulders rigid. Her arms, which had been planted on her hips while she was yelling at him, have since drifted to wrap around her waist. He glances up at her face, still frowning, and he sees she is staring at him, waiting to hear what he has to say for himself.

Well. 

“Lizzie…” he says slowly. “I’m perfectly all right. I’m sorry if I worried you. That was not my intention.”

She must be able to hear the sincerity in his voice but instead of relaxing like he suspected she would, he sees her arms tighten around her middle and, unbelievably, he sees her eyes fill with tears. 

Perhaps he had overexaggerated De Marco’s eccentricities. 

And perhaps Lizzie cares more about him than he originally suspected.

He feels a wonderful warmth flood him from head to toes.

“Well,” she mutters, looking strangely vulnerable and small, standing here in his hallway, looking anywhere but at him. “I was still worried.” 

Oh, Lizzie.

“Come here.” He murmurs, reaching for her.

And, unbelievably, she surges forward into his arms without hesitation, one arm wrapping around his back and the other around his waist, her face pressing into his shoulder. He wraps his arms tightly around her in return, wishing irrationally for a moment that he could absorb her into his body and keep her with him always. 

Silly.

He feels her take a deep breath in, her torso expanding within his arms, and he breaths with her almost by accident. As they exhale together, Red feels a lovely contentedness settle within him. He makes a silent promise to do his best not to worry her again.


	2. Chapter 2

**24\. “You’re trembling.” (Companion fic to 10.)**

Liz sighs as she closes her apartment door, shedding her shoes carelessly in the hall and dumping her coat and bag on the table, feet aching.

What an exhausting day.

It had started early with a sighting of their blacklister and ended so very late, after endless paperwork and formalities. At least their blacklister was finally in custody. 

If only it hadn’t taken a building blowing up to finally catch him. 

Liz had been the first to go in, Ressler and Samar not far behind her, when she caught sight of their suspect. She took off after him without a thought, heedless of their cries to wait. 

She didn’t realize he was going to prime a bomb.

But luckily, number 67 doesn’t have a suicidal streak. After he rigged the building to blow, Liz chased him right out the back door of the building and finally took him down as the explosion knocked them both off their feet. Aside from a few cuts and scrapes, Liz is perfectly fine, but that didn’t stop Cooper from giving her a long lecture on the advantages of teamwork. 

Liz sighs again, leaning against her apartment door, sore and wondering idly if she’ll make it to her bed or if she should just settle for the couch and does it really matter anyway because how – 

Knock, knock.

Liz jumps away from the door, startled. Who could that be? 

“Lizzie, open the door, it’s me.”

Red. There’s an odd tightness and urgency to his voice that Liz can’t identify.

She frowns and quickly opens the door. She doesn’t even get a good look at Red before he is rushing through the door, kicking it closed behind him, and gripping her by the shoulders.

“Lizzie, are you alright?” he asks urgently.

Liz blinks, confused. “Um, yeah, I’m fine, Red. Are you?”

Bewildered, Liz watches as Red’s face contorts in anger. 

“Are you really going to ask me that, Lizzie? After you were in an explosion today? Why did you go after that blacklister? How could you be so stupid, so reckless, we would have gotten him some other way, you shouldn’t risk your life like that, you could have been killed! And you didn’t think to call me at any point today? After I heard the news, I had to call Aram, of all people, to find out if you were alive – ”

Red’s anger seems to evaporate quickly, draining from his face as he looks at her, his eyes flickering anxiously over her face. 

“Red, I’m sorry.” Liz says honestly. “It was a crazy day, I didn’t really have time for phone calls. But I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Liz looks into his eyes, meeting his gaze for a moment before she sees his eyes flicker down to her cheek, zeroing in on the scrape there she sustained from a random piece of shrapnel in the explosion. 

Liz watches as Red raises his hand, as if in a trance, to brush his fingers gently across the superficial wound. She looks at his hand, so close to her now, and is shocked to see his fingers unsteady.

“You’re trembling.” she whispers.

Oh Red.

They move at the same time, Red’s trembling hand delving into her hair and the other yanking at her waist to pull her to him, while Liz’s arms wrap around Red’s neck. Liz scratches lightly at the back of his head and she feels his shiver against her whole body. She notices that the trembles are not confined to his hands, in fact, they seem to be quaking through his whole body. He buries his face in her neck and she shushes him, rocking them a little back and forth.

Oh, Red. He thought she had died. 

“I’m all right, Red, I’m right here.” She murmurs to him, cradling him. He takes a deep breath in at her words and lets it out slowly, the tremors gradually fading. Standing there holding him, Liz makes a silent promise to do her best not to worry him again.


	3. Chapter 3

**31\. “I can’t keep kissing strangers and pretending that they’re you.” (T rating)**

Red sulks in his booth, cringing as he watches Lizzie press up against her partner, dancing in the darkness of the club. He knows it’s necessary for Lizzie to appear occupied with her date while they wait for their mark to appear but that doesn’t mean he has to like it. He sips sullenly at his scotch, wishing he could simply throw it back and order ten more like he wants to. 

They have been staking out this particular club all week, undercover as simple clubbing patrons, waiting for their mark to appear. But it’s Friday and he still hasn’t showed. Red knows that if they don’t see him here tonight, Cooper will pull the plug on the whole operation. But at least Red and Liz aren’t wearing microphones anymore, connected to the team outside in a surveillance van like they were earlier this week. They gave up that part of the operation after Red convinced Cooper that the presence of the van was putting off their mark. 

That wasn’t true at all, of course, their mark was far too stupid to notice the team. But Red didn’t want to risk embarrassing Liz any more than he already has. Because on their first night undercover, Red and Liz had decided to portray a couple enjoying a night out and things had gotten a little…out of hand. 

The tension that always seemed to be simmering below the surface of their interactions had finally snapped under the darkness and heat of the club. They were dancing fairly chastely when Liz had finally leaned in close to his ear and whispered to him. 

“We have to sell this.”

Red’s heart had just about stopped in his chest when Liz had turned around and started to grind against him. Red had a split second of inaction before he was kicked into gear by the feel of Liz dancing so provocatively against him. He simply couldn’t stop his hands gripping her hips and pulling her firmly back against him, enjoying the friction far more than he probably should.

They danced like this for what seemed to Red to be a glorious 30 minutes before, without warning, Liz spun around and crushed her lips to Red’s with a moan. Red, after being stunned for another short moment, didn’t waste any time in pulling her tightly against him, his mouth working furiously against hers, their tongues tangling. 

When they finally surfaced for air, their eyes met and, while taking in dilated pupils and flushed cheeks, they suddenly remembered the mics and earpieces currently trapped between their warm bodies. They heard Ressler clear his throat and call off the operation for the night.

After a wide eyed, searching gaze over his face, Liz had slipped away from Red and disappeared in the crowd. They went their separate ways and they haven’t acknowledged the incident since.

So Red insisted on no more mics while they were undercover. As it turns out, it wasn’t necessary, as Lizzie had steadfastly avoided him as much as she could while they were both stuck in the same club for six hours every night. She had no shortage of partners and Red, while plenty of women sent interested glances his way, sat in his booth drinking scotch.

And trying to forget the feeling of Lizzie moaning into his mouth. 

He sighs. A futile business, to be sure.

Red checks his watch. Almost midnight. He casts a final glance around the room for their mark and, seeing him nowhere, decides to throw in the towel. He tosses back the last of his scotch and stands. Lizzie looks to be having a fine time with her current partner and he’s sure she can find her own way home. Bitterness rises in his throat like acid and he starts to push his way through the crowd to the door. 

However, he doesn’t get far before a hand grabs arm and he turns, startled, to see Lizzie tugging him to the back of the club. 

“Lizzie – “ he starts to say but she continues to pull him along until they are in the relative quiet of the back hallway.

Alone.

“Lizzie, what – “

“Look, I’m sorry about earlier this week,” she interrupts him easily and, oh, she’s apologizing and telling him what a mistake it was, of course, he never had a chance with her – 

“But I can’t stand this awkward dance anymore so let me just be honest.”

Yes, they should just address it like adults and move on and if Red’s heart comes out of this broken beyond repair, who really cares – 

“I can’t keep kissing strangers and pretending that they’re you.”

What?

Red just stares at her for a minute, her smoky eyes blinking alluringly at him, her lips looking wonderfully tempting with a light coat of deep red lipstick.

She wants to kiss him again?

“So how about you take me home and we do something about that?”

Red grins at her. Oh, hell yes.


	4. Chapter 4

**41\. “I feel like I can’t breathe.”**

Ring, ring.

Liz taps her finger anxiously against her phone as it rings, waiting for Red to pick up. It’s very late at night, almost early really, but she can’t help it.

She needs to talk to him.

She can’t sleep and she can’t seem to do anything about it but Red will help her. He always does. 

Sam’s birthday is coming up and it’s the first one since he’s been gone and Tom is gone too (which is definitely for the better) but she’s still having a hard time. Red saw her yesterday at the Post Office, looking exhausted and sad and somehow knowing why, and told her to not hesitate to call him. 

So, at two o’clock in the morning, that’s what she’s doing.

“Hello?”

“Red,” she breathes, relieved, closing her eyes.

“Lizzie? It’s very late, is something wrong?” Oh, Red.

“No, no, I’m sorry, I hope I didn’t wake you.” For some reason, it didn’t occur to her that Red might be sleeping.

“No, you didn’t wake me, Lizzie, but you should be asleep.”

“I know, it’s just…” Now that she has him on the phone, what does she say to him?

“Yes?” Patient Red. What has she done to deserve him?

“I can’t sleep. It’s…it’s Sam. And…you said I could call?” She feels so tentative now, what if he didn’t really mean it, what if he was just saying it, what if – 

“Of course, Lizzie, of course. I’m so glad you called.” Oh, Red. She can hear the sincerity in his voice. Of course he meant it, this is Red.

“Thank you, Red. I just…Well his birthday is coming up and I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that but it’s the first since he’s been gone and, though I know it shouldn’t mean anything, Tom isn’t here to help me through it and as disgusting as he was, he was the only thing I had and I just don’t know what to do,” and it’s all spilling out of her now, all the feelings and thoughts that had been building up inside her ever since she realized Sam would have been fifty in a week’s time. “…And the all the grief and sadness is back and it’s like he just died even though it’s been over six months, I don’t know why it’s so much more difficult all of a sudden but I just miss him so much and I feel like I can’t breathe – “

It's then, when her voice breaks off with a gasp, tears falling down her cheeks, that she realizes Red is speaking.

“Lizzie, Lizzie, it’s all right, just breathe, just breathe for me, sweetheart, can you do that? Everything is going to be fine, I promise, it’s all right, just breathe.”

And Liz finds herself clinging to his voice like a lifeline and she’s breathing easier now, taking deep gulps of air, and calming herself. 

“Is that better, Lizzie?”

“Yes.” She whispers, her throat sore and her voice hoarse. She already feels more empty and exhausted than she has in days.

Talking about it really does help.

“Now, I’m going to come over and we’re going to talk and you’re going to get some sleep tonight because I have a feeling you need it, all right, Lizzie?”

“All right.” Liz says easily, smiling a little now. Why did she wait so long to call him? Because, after all this time, she should know one thing.

Red will always take care of her.


	5. Chapter 5

**“Here, take my coat. This rain isn’t going to do you any favors, you’re barely over being sick.”**

Thunder booms, lightning flashes, and Liz rolls her eyes. 

It figures that she would get caught in a spontaneous April thunderstorm today, of all days. She’s been home sick for the last two days with a nasty cold, she woke up late this morning thanks to her “non-drowsy” sinus medication, spilled yogurt on herself on the way to work, and stubbed her toe on her desk. And then, without any preamble from Cooper, she was sent to drive thirty minutes out of the way to meet Red in some godforsaken nature reserve where the only shelter from, say, unexpected monsoons, is a single gazebo that Red is currently standing under, nice and dry. 

Liz sighs. What a ridiculous day. She can’t wait to get home, dry off, take a warm shower, dry off again, get in some comfortable pajamas, and just sleep, really, she can’t – 

But what’s that she sees? Red is coming out from under the gazebo? Yes, yes he is. The unyielding droplets of rain don’t take long to darken the light fabric of his tan suit. But he’s still jogging out to meet her, completely ignoring it.

“Red, what are you – “ she tries to yell to him.

But he waves her off and keeps coming. She quickens her pace towards him to at least try to meet him halfway. They don’t both need to get wet, after all. This is her bad day, not his.

Finally, after some jogging, her shoes squishing unpleasantly into the softening ground, they meet in the middle, rain dripping from the edge of Red’s fedora and Liz’s hair drenched and sticking to her face.

“Red,” she starts, quieter now that he’s near. “What the hell are you doing out here in the rain? You’re gonna ruin your suit and I sure as hell can’t pay that dry-cleaning bill so just – “

“Here,” he talks smoothly over her. “Take my coat. This rain isn’t going to do you any favors, you’re barely over being sick.”

Liz blinks in astonishment as Red quickly sheds his blue windbreaker and, seeing no objection from her, drapes it around her shoulders, adjusting it so it covers her as much as possible. 

Of course, Red would know that she’s been sick. They have been in between cases so she hasn’t been in contact with him but she should know by now that nothing as trivial as missed calls will stop Red from checking up on her. Liz knows that she should be at least a little bothered that Red was aware of her days spent in bed with nothing but misery, pillows, and dirty tissues but she isn’t. Instead, she feels only a rush of warmth. 

She has forgotten what it feels like to be cared for. 

There is another clap of thunder and Red, to Liz’s further surprise, wraps an arm around her shoulders and tucks her into his side, jogging them both back towards the gazebo. 

They make it there in one piece, Liz a little drier than she would have been and Red a little wetter than he should be. Liz turns to look at him.

“Why did you do that?” she asks in something like wonder. When was the last time someone did something like that for her?

(She forces Tom and his meaningless, fake promises from her mind.)

Red nonchalantly takes off his fedora and tips the collected rainwater off into the grass. 

“Why wouldn’t I do that, Lizzie?” he asks, frowning. “You were really quite sick and you’re by no means back up to one hundred percent yet.” He places his damp hat back on his head and turns to look at her. “If you’re not careful, you could catch pneumonia. I’m not about to let that happen by watching you walk through a rainstorm while I’m standing right here with a perfectly good jacket.” He shakes his head at her, smiling a little. “Don’t be silly, Lizzie.”

Liz stares at him for a minute. He says this as if it’s obvious, that someone would do this for her. Despite the thin shield of dry humor, she can see the sincerity in his eyes. And despite the cloud of everything she doesn’t know about him that constantly hovers in between them, she can be sure of one thing.

Red cares about her. 

Even with the rain currently creating a puddle at her feet on the gazebo floor, she feels another surge of that odd warmth fill her as she looks at Red, who is standing there, smiling at her, rocking a little on the balls of his feet.

“Well then,” she says, quietly. “You’re quite the Prince Charming.”

Red scoffs. “I hardly think so.”

“Oh, I disagree.” Liz says earnestly. “I was certainly in distress and you came to the rescue and saved me from a relentless enemy.”

“And who might that be?”

“Mother Nature.” Liz says seriously.

Red chuckles and smiles at her. A low rumble of receding thunder sounds in the background of their little gazebo. Red suddenly leans forward and adjusts the lapel of his jacket around her shoulders, needlessly straightening the edge. Liz can’t help but notice that his fingers brush her cheek very slightly. 

In a surge of bravery, Liz reaches up and takes his hand, bringing it slowly down in between them and squeezing his fingers. 

“So, do you think my Prince Charming would be willing to take me out for something warm to drink?” 

Red beams, his thumb running across her knuckles. 

“Yes, I think so.”

“Wonderful,” Liz chirps. “Let’s go.”

And she pulls on his hand, tugging him out into the now drizzling rain, giggling as he stumbles clumsily after her. 

Maybe this day isn’t so bad with Red by her side.


	6. Chapter 6

**“Whoa there, snot monster! Just where do you think you’re going?”**

Liz knocks on the door, tapping her foot impatiently. If Red would just pick up the damn phone, then she wouldn’t have to make these special trips out to his safe house every damn day. But nothing is ever that simple with Red, is it?

She knocks again, preparing to burst through and start yelling if need-be, when suddenly the door is wrenched open from under her fist. Dembe stands there staring at her, looking strangely flustered.

“Hello, Agent Keen. Raymond is indisposed right now.”

Liz frowns. “Indisposed? What do you mean? Is something wrong?”

Dembe sighs, suddenly looking tired. “He is…feeling under the weather.”

Liz blinks. Has Red ever been anything less than healthy and full of energy? “He’s sick?” If that’s true, she certainly feels bad for nearly breaking down the door. “Well, maybe I can help.”

“No, I don’t think – “

“Dembe?” Dembe is suddenly interrupted by a familiar but nasally voice calling from deeper in the house. “Who’s there?”

Dembe gives a long-suffering sigh and Liz suddenly understands that he must be playing the role of caregiver to a sick Red. 

“It is Elizabeth, Raymond.” He calls over his shoulder.

“Lizzie’s here? Oh, hello, Lizzie! Do come back, please!” 

Liz raises her eyebrow at Dembe and he just shrugs, moving aside to let her pass. “He’s in the second room on the right.”

“Thanks.”

Liz wanders back to the appropriate room and, peering through the open door, is met with a startling sight. 

Red is propped up in bed dressed in a wrinkled white dress shirt and rumpled slacks, discarded tissues littering the floor and bedside table. As he sees her, Red tosses the newspaper he was perusing to the bed and beams at her. 

“Lizzie!”

But Liz can do little more than gape at him. She has never seen Red in a state quite like this before and it is very disconcerting. Her gaze is stuck somewhere between his one out-turned pocket lining and his strangely mesmerizing sock-feet.

“Everything all right, Lizzie?”

Liz snaps out of her stupor with a blink. “Me? Yeah, of course, I’m fine. You, on the other hand…” She waves her hand unnecessarily at his sniffling form. 

“Me? Oh, nonsense, Lizzie, I’m perfectly fine. Just a little cold. It’s nothing, really.”

His claim is only slightly undermined by the huge sneeze that then racks his whole body. Liz raises her eyebrows. “Um, sure. Well, look, I was here to talk about the case but you’re obviously not in any condition to do that. So, is there anything I can get you?” 

She is suddenly worried, looking at his red-rimmed eyes, flushed cheeks, and runny nose. Has Dembe been taking his temperature? What if he has a fever? Did he just shiver?

“Are you cold? I’ll get you a blanket…”

“No, Lizzie, really – “

She ignores him – not intentionally, really, it’s just those stupid sock feet are giving her the insane urge to coddle him – and goes to ask Dembe where the blankets are. 

By the time she has a nice thick quilt and arrives back in Red’s room, she is met with yet another surprising sight: Red leaning over the bed trying to put his shoes on.

“Whoa there, snot monster! Just where do you think you’re going?”

Red looks up and frowns at the unsavory nickname. “If you must know, I have a meeting to attend.”

Dembe breezes in the room. “No, Raymond, I cancelled that meeting. You’re unwell. Take your shoes off and go back to bed.” he orders easily. 

“Oh, Dembe! You’re no fun! I’m perfectly well.” Red grumbles even as he kicks off his shoes and grabs another tissue to blow his nose. 

Liz sighs. Somehow, this whole new side of Red seems completely typical. Part drama queen, part selfless martyr. No wonder Dembe is flustered. Caring for Red seems to be a full-time job. Perhaps she should try to lighten the load. 

“Here Red, I got you a blanket. How about I cover you up and you take a nap? You need rest.”

He mumbles something unflattering about mother hens that Liz chooses to ignore because she thinks she spies a little grin on his face as she throws the quilt over him and tucks the edges in around his body, making sure to cover his silly sock feet. She sits on the edge of the bed and smooths the quilt over his shoulder.

“You gonna be okay, Red?”

“Of course, Lizzie, of course. You’re right, a little nap will make me right as rain…” And he’s already drifting off to sleep and Liz can’t help but think that he’s really quite adorable, all stuffy nosed and cuddly like this. Perhaps she’ll help Dembe with that chicken noodle soup she can smell cooking and stay until Red wakes up. 

Her little snot monster could use some loving.


	7. Chapter 7

**3\. “It’s three in the morning.”**

Bang, bang, bang.

Red looks up from his book, startled, and stares at the door. 

It’s just him alone in the living room of the hotel penthouse. Dembe is asleep in one of the back bedrooms. Red had tried to follow his lead earlier and get some rest but insomnia had decided to kick in at full force, making him toss, turn, and eventually swear off sleep. So here he is in the late hours of the night (or early hours of the morning, he thinks wryly) reading Proust. 

And someone is banging on his door. 

With a sigh, he snaps his book shut and tosses it onto the table, getting up and taking a moment to stretch before the pounding at the door starts up again. Red grabs the nearest weapon, a steak knife from the kitchen area, and proceeds cautiously to the door. Looking through the peephole, he sees a dark-haired woman, her up-do a little tousled, clad in a short red dress, barefoot, her black heels clutched in one hand.

Lizzie.

Red quickly replaces the knife in the block in the kitchen and hurries back to the door, wrenching it open. 

“Lizzie – “

“You!”

The word has a distinctly slurred quality and Lizzie says it with such gusto, jabbing a declamatory finger at him, that she stumbles and has to catch herself against the door jam.

Ah.

Lizzie is drunk.

She looks around for a moment, bleary-eyed, and then seems to notice that she is leaning heavily against something. She frowns at the door jam as if it has said something rude to her and pushes herself off with a little too much strength that sends her tumbling in the opposite direction. Which is right into Red’s arms.

He catches her instinctively, obviously, and holds her safely against him until she rights herself. However, her sense of balance seems to have abandoned her completely as she sways dangerously close to the door jam again. So, Red decides it’s best to just keeping holding her.

For her safety, of course.

Seeing as Lizzie will probably be here for a while, (he tries not to get too excited at the thought) Red decides that there’s no sense in standing here with the door open so he kicks it shut with his foot. At the loud noise, Lizzie startles a little and then turns to gaze into his face, looking a little surprised to find herself so close to him all of a sudden. He looks down at her.

She seems very small without shoes on.

“What about me, Lizzie?” he prompts gently, half curious as to where she was going with her earlier exclamation and half desperate to distract himself from the warmth of her in his arms. 

“You,” she repeats, calmer now, nodding to herself, seeming to appreciate the reminder of her outburst. Red has to smother a smile at how cute she is. “It’s your fault.” She states matter-of-factly.

Any urge to smile wilts up and dies inside of him. He’s not sure exactly what she’s blaming him for tonight but he has no doubt that she’s right. 

His fault? Yes, most things are. 

But he’s curious.

“What is, Lizzie?”

“Hmm?” she’s become distracted by the pattern on his tie, her finger tracing the purple swirls woven into the fabric there.

Drunk Lizzie is very tactile.

“What is my fault?” he repeats patiently.

“Oh,” she murmurs, once again back on track. “Everything.” She says simply, blinking at him, blatant as only alcohol can make someone. Her blue eyes are rimmed in slightly smudged eye-liner. The smoky effect makes her eyes even more piercing. 

“Oh.” He mutters. “Yes, that’s probably true.” 

She nods solemnly, eyes drifting back to his tie. “Everything,” she repeats. “Even this.”

Red frowns at her, about to ask her what she means, when she leans in quickly, too quickly for him to stop her. Before he knows it, her warm lips are touching his and his heart has stopped, surely he’s dead. But no, he can feel her hand tugging on his tie to bring him closer and her lips are moving sloppily against his and oh she tastes like whiskey. 

(Oh, his naughty Lizzie likes whiskey.)

And any other time this would be a dream come true but Lizzie is drunk, Lizzie doesn’t know what she’s doing, Lizzie doesn’t want him. And he would never take advantage of her like this. Never.

So, reluctant and regretful but determined, he gently pushes her away by the shoulders. She makes an adorable whining noise and pushes against him, trying to chase his lips, which is almost enough to have him tugging her back to him but he manages to hold her firmly at arm’s length. It’s lucky really.

He has a lot of practice doing what is best for Lizzie.

“Lizzie…” he murmurs, his voice significantly deeper than it was before.

“What?” she mumbles, finally seeming to accept that she won’t get any more kisses from him tonight and resigns herself to tucking her head under his chin, snuggling against him.

Drunk Lizzie is cuddly.

“Lizzie, it’s three in the morning.” He won’t kiss her again but for the life of him he can’t find anything wrong with wrapping his arms around her, holding her tightly to his chest. “And you’ve been drinking.”

She smothers a drunken giggle in his vest. “Is it that obvious?” 

Red can’t help but grin at her sudden silliness. “Just a little. How about we get you settled on the couch and you can sleep it off here?”

“Kay.” She mumbles, the mention of sleep making her yawn into his shoulder, her moods shifting quickly with the alcohol coursing through her system. 

“Okay.” Red keeps his arms around her but begins to walk forward slowly, steering her sleepy form to the couch, where he deposits her with more than a little difficulty. Her hands have somehow snuck under his vest and latched onto his dress shirt. She doesn’t seem to want to let him go. 

She is testing him tonight.

“All right, I’m going to get you a blanket and pillow. Stay here.”

“Mhm…” she’s already having trouble keeping her eyes open.

Red hurries off and grabs a spare pillow and blanket off his bed, ruthlessly squashing all the fluttery feelings that try to rise to the surface of him. There’s no use for those.

By the time he gets back to the front room, Lizzie has tipped over and curled up on her side, once again looking very small in the middle of the big couch, her strappy heels carelessly discarded under the coffee table, his book on top.

He can’t help but like the sight. 

“Here…” he manages to coax her head up just enough to tuck the fluffy pillow beneath it and then he carefully covers her up with the blanket, making sure it’s pulled up to her neck and over her toes. 

He doesn’t want her to get cold.

“Thank you, Red…” she whispers sleepily. Red smiles at her even though her eyes are closed.

“You’re welcome, Lizzie.” He’s about to turn away and leave her to rest when he hears another whisper from her blanket-covered form. 

“And s’okay, I forgive you…”

Red freezes.

“For what, Lizzie?” he asks urgently. For some reason, despite the fact that he knows it’s all drunken rambling, he desperately needs to know.

He has a feeling that drunk Lizzie is honest.

But she’s already asleep, breathing deeply through her mouth, carefree and peaceful. 

Red sighs. He’s supposes that it’s right. Her, asleep and at peace, and him, awake and not. But he also supposes that it doesn’t matter because she won’t remember any of this in the morning. Not the accusation, not the kiss, not the forgiveness.

But him? He won’t forget.


	8. Chapter 8

**“Get up one more time and I swear I will strap you down to the bed!”**

Liz’s key rattles in the lock of her apartment door as Dembe struggles to open it one-handed, his other arm slung around Liz’s hip, helping to keep her upright. Red supports her on her other side, arm similarly wrapped snugly around Lizzie’s waist, his other hand holding her left arm across his shoulders. 

Liz gives an annoyed sigh. “Look, I’m sorry about this.” She mutters, easing her weight a little more into Red and off her sprained right ankle. 

“Lizzie, what on earth are you apologizing for? You sprained your ankle while chasing down a dangerous criminal. That’s hardly a felony.”

Dembe finally manages to turn the lock and, with a frustrated sigh, kicks the door open. They start their awkward procession for the final leg of their journey, Liz hobbling along in between Dembe and Red, the three of them barely squeezing through the apartment doorway.

Liz rolls her eyes. “Still. You guys didn’t have to help me upstairs.”

“Lizzie, don’t be ridiculous. You can’t walk.”

“I could have if I – “

“Lizzie, the doctor said no.” 

Lizzie huffs, even though Red is right. He had sat next to her in the waiting room and then helped her back to the doctor’s office and, to her surprise, just stayed. He had listened intently to everything the doctor said and then asked more questions than Liz did. The experience was both surreal and oddly endearing. And, surprising, not entirely unpleasant. 

Perhaps she hit her head when she tripped and fell. 

The doctor had wrapped her ankle and prescribed one week of bedrest before a follow-up appointment. She has a feeling that Red will be around a lot in the next week. And perhaps even sitting in on her follow-up. She’s not sure how she feels about that. 

At all.

She sighs, pulling herself back to the task at hand through the thin haze of low-strength pain meds the doctor had given her. They’re in the living room of her apartment now so she turns as best she can on one ankle and tries to steer her helpers toward the couch, dying to finally sit down, watch some stupid TV and – 

“Lizzie, just where do you think you’re going?” Red asks sharply.

“Uh, my couch?” she says, turning to glance questioningly at him.

“Absolutely not. You need real rest, you should be upstairs in bed.”

“Red, please, I don’t think I can make it up the stairs…”

“Well, luckily, that won’t be a problem.”

“What – “

But that’s all Liz gets out because, in one smooth and coordinated motion, Dembe eases out from under her right side and Red turns to effortlessly knock her legs out from under her and scoop her up into his arms. 

“Red!” she squeals, throwing her arms around his neck helplessly. 

Oh, he is strong. She can feel his biceps tight under her knees and behind her back. He starts toward the stairs, carrying her with an ease she couldn’t have imagined. 

“Red, put me down, you’re going to hurt yourself!”

“Oh, please, Lizzie,” he scoffs. “Give me a little credit. I’m fifty, not eighty.”

Liz rolls her eyes at his stubbornness. But he’s made it to the second landing already so she figures she should just commit to being here for a while. 

Besides, she thinks idly, there are worse places she could be than in Red’s arms.

“Fifty?” she decides to tease him as he starts down the upstairs hallway, careful not to jostle her. “Isn’t that a little generous?”

He gasps melodramatically, stopping in his tracks in the hallway, turning to look at her, mouth agape. “Lizzie, I’m wounded!” he cries.

She smirks at him, tapping her fingers against his shoulder. 

He is very broad. 

“Eh, it’s only your pride. Whereas my ankle…” she reminds him, holding up her foot and wiggling her toes stiffly.

“Ah, yes,” he mutters. “Well, you’re lucky I’m a gentleman.”

He starts walking again and strides right into her bedroom without asking which room it is. Which bothers Liz a little less than it probably should, considering the current not-romantic-but-possibly-on-the-edge-of-something-more state of their relationship. 

He carefully lowers her onto her bed, his face coming very close to hers as he leans down with her. She stretches her legs out on the bed with a relieved sigh, finally relaxing her aching ankle. Red glances down at her feet, checking to make sure she’s settled, leaving his arms around her for a long moment. She clears her throat softly and he turns back to her and oh they are very close. Her eyes flicker from his jade eyes to his pink lips. 

She thinks they would be very soft. 

He gently pulls his arms out from under her and steps back.

Several steps. 

“See?” he murmurs. “Disaster avoided.”

“Mmm…” she hums, looking at him, standing there, a bit mesmerized by him. 

She definitely hit her head. Hard.

“Well,” he says suddenly, loudly. “I’m going to run downstairs and bring some things up for you, since you’ll be staying on this floor for the time being. Some snack food, bottled water, medicine. Anything else?”

“No, thank you, that should be fine.” Liz can’t help but smile at him. Regardless of the severity of her suspected head wound, he is being very sweet. 

He nods jerkily and turns quickly to leave. 

Perhaps Red is trying to escape that odd warmth hovering in the room, blanketing them.

The room.

Her bedroom.

Liz whips around, throwing a panicked glance around her. There are clothes scattered everywhere, books and DVDs haphazardly strewn, lipsticks and eyeliners littering her bureau and dear god, is that a pair of underwear on that chair over there?

Oh, no. That won’t do.

Liz glances around, looking for something to help her up. She settles for her nightstand, grasping the edge to help her heave herself up and onto one foot. She then starts grabbing everything within reach, stacking items semi-neatly on the nightstand and balling up clothes to hurl them across the room and into the empty hamper in the corner.

She gets all the clothes she can reach and decides she can’t help all the odds and ends everywhere – she didn’t plan on doing a faceplant into a cement sidewalk today, after all – and bites her lip. It’s just that one pair of panties, bright red and lacy, abandoned last week after a dismal night out in exchange for her comfy cotton ones, that are mocking her from across the room. Red can’t see those. He just can’t. 

She’s standing there, trying to figure out how to get to the rogue pair of panties, when Red wanders back into the room.

“Lizzie? What are you doing up?”

“Uh,” she starts eloquently. She winces. She can’t exactly tell Red the truth – that she was panic-cleaning her room for him because they’re not at a place in their relationship where she’s comfortable letting him see her for the unorganized slob that she really is – and struggles to come up with an excuse.

“I was, uh – “

“Well, it doesn’t matter, get back into bed.” He busies himself setting everything he brought upstairs onto her already crowded nightstand, a feat in itself.

She scowls to herself and plops back down onto the bed, the damn underwear burning a hole in the back of her head. She doesn’t turn around to look, afraid of drawing his attention to them. 

She has to get rid of them.

“Uh, Red?” she asks quickly. “Could I have something else from downstairs please?”

“Of course. What do you need?”

Good question.

“Uh…my iPod? It’s on the dining room table, I think.”

Red nods and leaves again.

The minute she hears his gait on the stairs, she turns and heaves herself out of bed again, using her desk and then her dresser to hop along towards the chair, slowly making progress, glaring at the offending garment, wishing it would spontaneously burst into flames. She’s only about halfway when she hears Red climbing back up the stairs. Damn it, she should have sent him for something further away. She stretches out her hand and finally manages to snatch the damn panties off the chair and throw them with gusto into the hamper. 

Red enters the room a second later.

“Lizzie! Get up one more time and I swear I will strap you down to the bed!”

Liz turns to smirk at him, much more at ease now that her panties are safely out of his view.

“Promise?”

For now.


	9. Chapter 9

**“Sorry, but you’ve gotta lose the blanket burrito until your fever breaks.”**

"Come in!" 

Liz hears the muffled call through the hotel room door and frowns. She turns the handle experimentally and finds the door unlocked. 

That's odd.

She pushes it open and cautiously enters.

"Red?" She calls tentatively.

"In the living room, Lizzie!"

She follows the sound of his voice and moves forward into the suite, passing the kitchenette to find him curled in the corner of a very large couch in the living area, swathed in at least six, different colored blankets.

Oh.

"Red? Where's Dembe? Are you alright?"

The first question rapidly becomes the less important one as she gets a good look at him. He is pale and drawn, looking strangely small under all his blankets, and sniffing pathetically, eyes watering.

He peers wearily at her from under the blankets, blinking slowly.

"Of course, Lizzie, I'm fine. Just picked up a little bug in Europe last week. Dembe is out picking up medicine for me. You should keep your distance for now, I'm not sure if this is contagious or not." 

But Lizzie is striding forward as soon as she hears the words "bug in Europe", not completely aware she is moving until Red is cautioning her, but she's never been good at listening to him anyway, has she?

"Well, what's wrong? Is there anything I can do?"

Red stares at her in surprise but slowly shakes his head.

"No, thank you, Lizzie, I'll be fine. You should go on home. I'm not up to discussing the case today."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," mutters Liz, spying an empty glass on the small table next to him. "I'm at least staying until Dembe gets back with your medicine. What were you drinking?"

"Uh, Gatorade, but, Lizzie –"

But Liz doesn't wait for him to finish, just throws her bag onto a chair, sheds her jacket, and marches off to the kitchen to get him a refill. Something about him looking so pale and small bothers her. 

She's not exactly sure why.

She doesn't want to stop to figure it out.

Before she leaves the small kitchen, she grabs a pack of peanut butter crackers she spies in the cabinet, just in case. What’s that old saying? Starve a cold, feed a fever?

Hm.

Does Red have a fever?

She hurries back to the main room and sets the drink and crackers down on the table.

"Lizzie, really –"

But she quickly reaches out a hand and places it gently on his forehead, effectively stunning him into silence. She feels for a moment and sighs.

He’s burning up.

"Sorry, but you’ve gotta lose the blanket burrito until your fever breaks.”

Red gapes at her and she crosses her arms.

“Come on, Red, you've got a fever. It’s not good for your body temperature to be this high, I'm sure you know that. So, take the blankets off.”

When he doesn't do anything, she impatiently reaches for the green one draped around his shoulders but he leans away from her, clutching his blankets protectively.

"But Lizzie, I'm cold." He whines.

Red is whining. 

Oh Red.

"How about I sit next to you until Dembe gets back? That will keep you warm without overheating you." 

He seems to perk up a little at this but tries not to show it. And Liz smiles at that but tries not to show it. He quickly sheds all the blankets, suppressing a shiver, to reveal a soft cotton t-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms. 

(Liz smothers the fluttery, warm feelings in her chest at the sight.) 

She remembers to grab the crackers as she sits down close to him.

Feed a fever.

"Here." She says shortly and watches as Red takes the crackers and opens the package.

He offers her one silently and she takes it with a nod of thanks. And that's how they sit, leaning into each other, sides pressing together on the couch, munching contemplatively on their respective crackers.

"How was your day?" Red murmurs to her after a quiet, peaceful moment.

Liz smiles. Even when he is sick, Red still cares enough to ask about her day.

She sinks a little further into the couch and tugs the edge of the blue blanket over her lap, subtly laying her head on his shoulder as she tells him of the team's latest antics, making him smile and laugh.

She can't help but hope that Dembe will take his time.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I decided to try a dialogue-only mini-fic with this prompt so it's just a phone call between a sick Red and a needy Lizzie. Also, Red loves The Three Stooges. Idk.

**“Never thought I’d say this, but I liked it better when you were feeling up to complaining.”**

"You really won't let me come over?"

"Absolutely not, Lizzie. It's just the flu, I'm fine."

"If you're fine then why can't I come over?"

"Because there's no need for you to get sick as well."

"Who says I'll get sick? I've always had a very strong immune system, you know."

"Perhaps I'm not willing to chance it."

"And what if I am?"

"Well you can try to come over but Dembe's laid up in bed as well. I've already passed this on to him."

"I don't really need someone to open the door for me, you know. That's just the illusion of control that I’m gracious enough to give you. I'm perfectly capable of picking a lock."

"I'm well aware, Lizzie. But please don't."

"... Fine. Are you sure there's nothing I can just drop off to you? You know, reduce the risk of contamination?"

"No, thank you, Lizzie, we're fine. We have hot tea and buttered toast galore, not that either of us feel like eating anything." 

"So, there's absolutely nothing that I can do?"

"No."

"Never thought I’d say this, but I liked it better when you were feeling up to complaining. You're not you when you're like this."

"I'm sorry to disappoint, Lizzie."

"Oh, shut up, Red, you know that's not what I mean. I'm just worried about you."

"And I appreciate that worry, Lizzie. I truly do. But please don't bother. It's not necessary. Dembe and I will be just fine in a few days’ time."

"Not to be rude but I wasn't worried about Dembe. He's young and strong, I know he'll be fine."

"Rude might not have been your intention but rude it certainly was."

"Sorry."

"I don't think you are."

"I'm not. But you'll call me when you're feeling better?"

"Yes, Lizzie."

"I want to see you as soon as you'll take visitors."

"I'm not on my deathbed, Lizzie."

"Well, you could have fooled me, what with the quarantine and all."

"It's just to be safe, Lizzie."

"I know... But it's annoying. I'll talk to you soon then?"

"At the earliest opportunity."

"All right. And don't hesitate to call if you're bored or whatever, okay? It is the weekend after all."

"I won't, Lizzie."

"You know, like if you wanna watch The Three Stooges with someone and Dembe's asleep."

"You hate The Three Stooges, Lizzie."

"Yeah, but I think being sick is kind of like your birthday: you get to do whatever you want ad everyone around you has to suffer too."

"I'm sorry I'm such an inconvenience to you, Lizzie." 

"It's all right, I suppose. I think I'll manage this one time. Just make sure not to get sick too often. I'm not a very patient person."

"Oh, I know that."

"Speaking of rude, Mr. Pot."

"Oh, stop, you know what I mean. I'm sick, Lizzie, I'm not thinking straight."

"Mhm. That excuse will only get you so far, Mr. Reddington. You'd better watch yourself."

"I'll be on my guard, Agent Keen."

"….."

"So, you'll call?"

"Yes, Lizzie."

"Good. I guess I'll hang up then. Go watch some Three Stooges."

"Really?"

"I feel like I should be prepared for a marathon at any time, don’t you agree?"

"Oh, absolutely."

"All right then. I guess I'll crack open that box set you gave me for my birthday last year."

"You're just now opening that?"

"You wanna watch The Bachelor instead?"

"You be careful, Lizzie, those damn wrappers can be tricky."

"I'll be sure to have band aids on hand for any paper cut emergencies."

"Very wise."

“…..”

"Okay, I'll talk to you later."

"Okay, Lizzie."

"Bye."

"Goodbye."

.....

Ring, ring.

"Miss me already, Lizzie?"

"Shut up. I'm already confused. What are their names again?"

"So, there's Larry, Moe, and Curly..."


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something different: Ressler's POV.

**“Between the sprain and the sniffles, you really can’t catch a break this week.”**

Ressler stands outside the door of Reddington’s latest safe house with Liz, who is tapping her foot impatiently. Which is a little surprising to him. He knows she’s probably tired of being at Reddington’s beck and call but he’d figured she’d just kind of gotten used to it by now. But here she is bouncing on the balls of her feet, huffing big sighs, and knocking on the door every other minute. 

Weird. 

“Jeez, Keen. That’s not gonna get them to answer the door any faster.”

She rolls her eyes and doesn’t even bother answering him. He sighs. She’s in one of those moods then. He’d feel sorry for himself being stuck in the same FBI issued van with her today if he didn’t pity Reddington more. 

Judging by her attitude, he’s in for a world of hurt from Keen today, that’s for sure.

Finally, the door swings open and there stands Dembe, waving them in. But Liz doesn’t even bother to wait for an invitation, just pushes in and starts down the hall.

Ressler sighs and shrugs helplessly at Dembe before easing past him and into the house. He wanders slowly down the hallway he saw Liz disappear down, in no hurry to get closer to the argument that is no doubt brewing in the air between them. 

But then he hears Liz’s voice coming from a room off to the left and it doesn’t sound quite like what he expected.

“Between the sprain and the sniffles, you really can’t catch a break this week.”

Ressler frowns, rounding the corner to turn into what looks like a study, and is confused by the sight that greets him.

Reddington is sitting up on the couch in front of the fireplace, leg stretched out in front of him and foot propped up on a pillow. Ressler also spies several boxes of tissues and a trash can within reach.

And Liz is standing close to him, murmuring things he can’t hear.

“Donald, hello, how are you?” Reddington says loudly, smoothly interrupting Liz. She straightens up and turns to glare at Ressler, looking even more irritated then before.

Great.

Ressler leans against the door jam, crossing his arms.

“Better than you, it seems.”

Red barks a hoarse laugh while Liz throws Ressler another annoyed glare. 

Really weird. 

“When Keen told me you sprained your ankle chasing an ‘associate’, I was sure that was code for ‘playing hooky and flying to Portugal’ or something.”

Red chuckles again.

“Ah, that sounds wonderful. It is truly gorgeous in Portugal this time of year. But, alas, I’m not quite fit for an impromptu plane flight.”

“I see that. Got a cold, too, huh?”

“You are ever observant, Donald. Does anything ever escape your vigilant notice?”

Ressler rolls his eyes, deciding to put an end to the bickering for the time being, pushing off the door jam and easing back out into the hall. 

“Well, you’re obviously not fit for talking about work. You ready to go, Keen?”

“Yeah, I’ll be out in a sec.” she snaps, not moving from Reddington’s side.

Ressler sighs. She must not be finished taking a bite out of him.

“Okay, okay. I’ll wait in the hall. Feel better, Reddington. Drink lots of liquids.”

“Wherever would I be without your medical know-how, Donald?”

Ressler gives him one last dry smirk and leaves the room to lean on the wall out in the hallway. He doesn’t want to eavesdrop but he also doesn’t relish going back out to the living room to wait in awkward silence with Dembe…

“I just don’t understand why it’s this difficult for you to take care of yourself. Normal people don’t have nearly this much trouble.”

“Well, contrary to what you seem to believe, Lizzie, I don’t go out of my way to get injured. I generally try to avoid it.”

Ressler frowns. Did he hear that right? It almost sounds like Liz is concerned about Reddington. That can’t be right…

“I know…I’m sorry. I just worry about you. I mean, a cold on top of a sprained ankle? Who does that?”

“I know, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I suppose it wouldn’t help to tell you not to worry?”

“Hasn’t worked yet, has it?”

“No, I suppose not.”

What the hell? Did Reddington just call her “sweetheart”?

“Well, as much as I hate to say it, Lizzie, you’d better go. Donald’s waiting.”

Yes, Donald is waiting, Ressler thinks. Waiting for something he’s hearing to make some god damn sense.

“Yeah, I know. I really don’t feel like chasing criminals today though. I’ve got my own to take care of. And, let me tell you, he’s quite a handful.”

Ressler hears Red give a deep chuckle. 

“I don’t want you to leave either, sweetheart.”

“Are you sure there’s nothing I can get you?”

“I’m sure. Dembe’s got me well taken care of.”

“Good. I’ll see you later tonight then.”

What?

“I certainly hope so. This patient could use some attention.”

“I think I can help with that.”

Oh, god.

“I’ll see you later.”

“Be safe, Lizzie.”

Ressler barely has time to close his mouth before Liz appears in the hall. When she sees him, she quickly shifts back into what Ressler dubs her “agent mode” but not before he catches a glimpse of a very soft-looking Liz that he has never seen before.

Oh.

She says nothing, however, just gives him a quick nod and stomps back down the hallway. They are past Dembe and out the front door before Ressler manages to sort his confusion into a coherent question.

“Uh, Keen?” he says tentatively, unlocking the van with a beep of the key fob.

“What?” she snaps, opening her door and turning to face him with her piercing blue eyes, daring him to say something.

Maybe her and Reddington are a good match, after all.

“…Nothing.” He mutters, shaking his head and climbing in the car.

He doesn’t even wanna know.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dembe's POV.

**“Wow, that bug really took a lot out of you.”**

The car speeds down the highway, light posts flashing by at even intervals, illuminating the interior of the car before it is blanketed in darkness once again. The quiet hum of the engine and the occasional whoosh of passing cars are the only sounds audible from within the warm interior. Dembe holds the wheel loosely in his hands, gently guiding the car down the slight curves of the highway, cruise control on. He blinks slowly, hoping they’ll make it back to the safehouse before he starts to get really sleepy. It’s been quiet for a while in the car, no more soft conversation from Raymond and Elizabeth in the backseat. 

Dembe glances in the rearview mirror.

He sees Raymond, eyes drooping, head lolling on his neck, struggling to stay awake.

Dembe’s eyes flick back to the road.

Raymond has been sick recently. Nothing serious, just a stomach virus, but it was enough to exhaust him for a few days. After all, Raymond is no longer a young man. And he certainly doesn’t approve of slowing down to catch up on his sleep. 

Raymond abhors weakness. 

But here, on the way back from a late-night visit with a contact, Raymond can’t stop from dozing. 

Even with Elizabeth in the car.

Dembe knows that Raymond tends not to let his guard down around Liz anymore, not since Cuba, and Dembe certainly can’t blame him. But Dembe can also see Liz and all the remorse she carries around with her. She doesn’t know how to admit her mistakes and express her regret properly. 

Few people do.

Dembe feels for the two of them, Raymond and Elizabeth. They have a complicated past, to say nothing of their present and future. There are many secrets and negative emotions between the two of them, keeping them apart. But Dembe can see, unlike most others, how much they need each other. 

Dembe glances into the rear-view mirror again, this time to see Liz, turned slightly to watch Raymond’s head repeatedly fall forward and then jerk back up as he defiantly fights sleep.

“Here,” Dembe hears Liz murmur all of a sudden. He watches to see her scoot closer to Raymond, who is now mostly awake and squinting at her, bleary eyed in the darkness of the car.

“What?” he asks, voice scratchy and hoarse.

“You’re gonna hurt your neck trying to sleep like that.” She scolds him gently. “Here, lay on me.” 

She pats her shoulder.

Dembe’s eyebrows raise.

Raymond stares at her.

A long moment passes.

Liz sighs. “Well, I’ll be here if you ever decide.” And she goes back to staring out of the car window.

Dembe meets Raymond’s bewildered gaze in the mirror. Dembe gives a little twitch of his lips and a shrug.

Why not?

Dembe watches as Red turns slowly to look at Lizzie, who is still peering quietly out the window, and swallows nervously. He eases sideways and cautiously lays his head on the very edge of her shoulder. 

Liz sighs again.

She carefully moves closer to Raymond, sliding her shoulder more firmly under his head, so he is resting comfortably half on her shoulder and half on her chest. Raymond remains tense for a long moment, clearly uncomfortable with the sudden intimacy. Liz remains relaxed, settling into her seat and going back to gazing out of the window, clearly hoping to calm Raymond this way. 

As Dembe takes their exit off the highway, Red slowly relaxes into Liz, his eyes drooping again. Dembe spies Liz give a little smile as she feels him do so. 

“Wow, that bug really took a lot out of you.” Liz murmurs.

And Dembe watches as Elizabeth lays her cheek very gently against the top of Raymond’s head and closes her eyes. 

Perhaps they will get there in their own time.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samar's POV. Super short.

**“I don’t think you got over your cold, sounds like it just moved into your chest.”**

Samar pulls her gray pea coat tighter around her shoulders as she follows Liz and Reddington across the golf course. The sun is gleaming in a cloudless sky but it is still chilly out. They are going to meet a golfing enthusiast friend of Reddington’s who may have dealings with their current blacklister and Samar was invited along. Well, not so much invited along as caught in the car with Liz when Reddington called. She’s still not sure why Liz just didn’t drop her off at the post office. They drove right by it and maybe she could have grabbed lunch with Aram. But alas, here she is, trekking across the flat, artificially green expanse of a golf course in 40-degree weather during her lunch hour. 

And those aren’t the only reasons she’s not happy about it. 

Reddington has a cold, it seems, and while that’s not uncommon in these early winter months when germs are running wild, Samar is still not interested in getting sick. He claims he’s quite healthy, of course, but that obviously couldn’t be farther from the truth.

As they walk, he lets out a rather nasty sounding cough, wet and full of…substance. Thankfully he has the good graces to cover his mouth but Samar still inches away, putting some distance in between them. 

She doesn’t have many vacation days left.

She glances over, expecting to share a mildly disgusted look with Liz, who is walking on Reddington’s other side, but Liz isn’t looking at her. Instead, Samar sees Liz moves closer to Red with an expression she would call concern if she didn’t know any better.

Liz places a comforting hand gently between Red’s shoulder blades.

Perhaps she doesn’t.

“I don’t think you got over your cold, sounds like it just moved into your chest.”

Perhaps she doesn’t know anything at all.

They arrive at the fifth hole where they are to wait for Reddington’s golfing contact and Samar quickly pulls out her phone, mindlessly thumbing through her email and watching Liz and Red out of the corner of her eye, wondering if she should send a text to Aram telling him what she just saw. 

Samar can’t stop her eyes widening as sees Red takes Liz’s hand and squeeze her fingers in silent thanks.

No, she thinks.

She’ll keep this to herself.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aram's POV. Cause he's a lil cinnamon roll.

**“This is your last chance to say something that makes sense before I haul your butt to the doctor.”**

“Really, Lizzie, people do their own stiches all the time.”

“Not sane people!”

“Well, that’s debatable.”

“No, it’s really not!”

Aram sits perched on a stool at his workstation, eyes flitting rapidly between Agent Keen and Mr. Reddington as they argue, feeling as though he’s watching a particularly intense tennis match.

Agent Keen is very loud.

Mr. Reddington suffered a rather deep cut from an uncooperative suspect while attempting to assist Agent Keen in arresting him. Neither of them saw the knife until it was too late. They delivered the suspect back to the post office to be interrogated by Agents Navabi and Ressler, which is what they’re doing now, while Liz is staying behind in the bullpen to yell at Mr. Reddington. 

Aram thinks idly that, for some reason, Liz is the only person that can berate Mr. Reddington like this and not be threatened. Or shot. Or killed.

Liz had fussed over the cut, telling Mr. Reddington that he shouldn’t have jumped in to help her, she was perfectly fine without his help.

Mr. Reddington had simply brushed off her anger and told her that he’d rather be safe than sorry. Strangely, this had only frustrated Liz more, and she snapped at Aram to stay out of it when he tried to suggest that Mr. Reddington could probably take care of himself.

Aram stopped talking after that.

Liz had insisted that Mr. Reddington get it taken care of as soon as possible, so he had nodded, retrieved the first aid kid from the wall, and proceeded to stitch up his own wound. Naturally, Liz had panicked and tried to snatch the needle from him before he got started but she wasn’t fast enough.

Aram is glad he has a strong stomach.

So, here they sit, Mr. Reddington leaning over the table stitching up his own arm, Liz glaring daggers at him from close by, and Aram watching it all from the relative safety of his desk.

“It’s perfectly normal, Lizzie. Why do you think they have this supplies in the first aid kit to begin with?” Mr. Reddington continues their argument calmly, not a tremor in his voice as he slowly sews.

“It’s only normal if you use the anesthesia included in the kit, dumbass.” Liz snaps, almost audibly grinding her teeth as she watches Red.

“Oh, I’d rather leave the painkillers for someone who really needs them, Lizzie.” Red says sincerely, his statement rather at odds with the needle currently in his arm.

“That’s it!” Liz barks, throwing her hands in the air. “This is your last chance to say something that makes sense before I haul your butt to the doctor.”

“No need,” Red chirps, straightening up suddenly. “All done!”

Liz seethes. “And you probably did a shit job, too. Let me see.” She stomps over to glare at his arm which, as far as Aram can see, is clean and contains a row of small, neat stitches. 

Liz sighs, evidently frustrated with Mr. Reddington’s success, and grabs the first aid kit from him. 

“Well, at least put a bandage on, idiot.” She mutters. She grabs the gauze and medical tape from the kit and pulls a chair over to the table. She plops down and begins to unravel some gauze, mumbling insulting things under her breath all the while. 

But Mr. Reddington simply sits there, chin propped on his good arm, and watches her work, his expression openly adoring. Aram frowns. 

Liz, despite the scowl still firmly planted on her face, is very gentle with her bandaging. As she secures the gauze with medical tape, Aram sees her give Mr. Reddington’s arm a tender stroke. Hm. 

Aram watches as she looks up at Mr. Reddington, who doesn’t bother to hide his strangely affectionate gaze. Instead of yelling more, which he expected, Aram watches as Agent Keen’s scowl slowly melts into a loving look that matches Mr. Reddington’s exactly.

Loving?

Oh. 

Aram quickly jumps up and grabs his empty mug, hurrying off and mumbling something about needing a coffee. 

He’ll try his best to pretend he didn’t see any of that. It’s probably best.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cooper's POV. These crazy kids are tiring him out.

**“Please let me help you, I’m scared you’re gonna fall.”**

“Go!”

At Cooper’s order, the SWAT team kicks down the wooden door and bursts into the worn-down building, Liz on their heels, vest on, gun drawn, eyes blazing. 

Cooper lets the whole team enter before following cautiously, gun also at the ready. His job is to watch and give orders, not put himself in the line of fire. 

The goal of this operation is to rescue Reddington, as usual. He has been captured yet again, for what seems like the hundredth time. But this time it’s by no one too serious, just some unintelligent thugs who think they’ll earn a few bucks by passing Reddington off to the highest bidder. If Red’s people have anything to do with it, Cooper doubts they’ll live to make that mistake again. But just because they’re thugs doesn’t mean they don’t have guns. Or fists.

Of course, they don’t know that they’ve brought the wrath of the FBI down on themselves. Cooper and his task force are honor-bound to protect all their confidential informants, even if one of them is Raymond Reddington. But the thugs have brought not only the full force of the FBI to their front door but also the considerable might of Elizabeth Keen. 

Cooper is not sure which is worse. 

Since the moment she exploded out of the elevator and into the bull pen of the post office, telling Cooper and the team that Reddington needed their help, Cooper had seen that hard glint in her eyes that she always gets whenever Reddington is in danger. Cooper has long since thought of Liz as a daughter and, after seeing her at work for this many years, he can easily say that one of her best traits is that she is fiercely loyal, both as an agent and as a person. He tries to tell himself that’s what that look is: loyalty to her CI.

He tries.

If Cooper was honest with himself, he’d admit that he has seen something between Reddington and Keen for a very long time, perhaps since the very first day. First, it was just Reddington that had that odd gravitation toward Liz. But it didn’t take long, only until just after her marriage deteriorated, for Liz to start staring at Reddington with that possessiveness and steel. Together, as strange as it seems, Cooper can’t help but think that could be a good pair. 

Luckily, ignoring things he shouldn’t see seems to be in his job description. 

He observes as the team swarms the building, efficiently checking every room, taking out enemies when necessary. He keeps an eye on Liz as she prowls through the building after the team, glaring into every room, the furrow of her brow deepening with each room Reddington is not in. 

The team clears the first floor of the building and Cooper nods to the leader, who immediately gestures to the team to move up the stairs to the second story. Cooper watches as Liz slinks up the stairs after them.

(Cooper has the sudden thought that he is grateful for Liz’s ingrained compassion for others. If she didn’t have that, he gets the distinct impression she would be on the other side of the law, and truly something to behold. 

Perhaps that’s one of the things Reddington likes about her. 

Cooper quickly shakes off that disturbing thought.)

He hurries up the stairs after the team, supervising as they systematically kick down doors and secure rooms. 

It is then that Liz breaks off from the pack, stopping in front of the last door, the one that Reddington must be in. 

“Keen!” he barks.

But she either doesn’t hear him or chooses to ignore him – Cooper thinks he knows which one – and she easily kicks the door open, rushing inside and letting off two gun shots in rapid succession.

“KEEN!”

Cooper races after her and enters the room just in time to see the lead thug and his second in command both writhing on the floor in pain. One is shot in the leg and the other in the arm and both of their guns are tucked securely in Liz’s vest. 

Both suspects are subdued with non-life-threatening injuries, their weapons safely in the custody of a government official. Assuming Liz simply didn’t hear his earlier warning, she has done everything by the book. 

Except what she’s doing right now. 

The first thing Cooper sees is a bloodied Reddington, who is slumped against the wall on the floor. His condition doesn’t look too serious, nothing fatal, but he has certainly taken a beating. His left eye is bruised and swelling and he has a split lip that is half-heartedly oozing blood. Looking lower, Cooper sees Reddington is favoring his left side, probably a bruised rib or two, and he has some superficial cuts on his arms, probably from fending off blows. His worst injury looks to be a rather deep cut on his right calf that looks red and angry, as though it has been left bleeding for quite some time. That will need some attention and probably some stiches. 

All in all, some patching up and a few days in bed will soon set Reddington to rights and, by Cooper’s non-medical assessment, he’ll be just fine.

Liz doesn’t seem so sure.

She is hovering protectively over Reddington, gently prodding his red lip and inspecting the cuts on his arms. All very clinical, Cooper tries to tell himself, even as he watches Liz sit back on her heels and look at Reddington sadly, shaking her head. 

“And we’d almost made it through the month without you getting hurt, didn’t we?”

Cooper watches as she reaches up to place a gentle hand on Reddington’s face, her thumb faintly tracing under his black eye. Reddington closes his good eye and hums, turning his face into her palm. The whole thing exudes affection and intimacy and Cooper feels oddly as though he’s intruding. 

Nonsense. He’s the assistant director of the FBI Special Task Force, not to mention Keen’s boss. He has complete jurisdiction over the situation. 

He clears his throat awkwardly.

Smooth.

Red opens his eyes as best he can, squinting at Cooper across the room.

“Harold! How lovely to see you, how are you?” he calls to him rather too cheerfully, considering how many different places he’s bleeding from.

Liz, to her credit, looks a little embarrassed as she quickly turns and stands to face Cooper. But he can’t help but notice she still stands somewhat in front of Reddington, as if she has some instinct to shield him from danger.

“We have an ambulance on the way,” Cooper says stiffly, ignoring Red’s misplaced manners and his agent’s curious behavior. “You just hang tight and we’ll get you all taken care of.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, Harold. I’m perfectly capable of seeking my own treatment, thank you.” Reddington says smoothly.

“Excuse me –”

But Reddington is already attempting to push his injured form off the floor.

“Red!” Liz gasps, a surprising amount of reprimand in her voice as she hurries to help him up. “Red, you should wait for the ambulance.” She says, quieter now but still perfectly audible to Cooper.

“Nonsense, Lizzie. I’m perfectly able to go see my own doctors.” But he still leans heavily on her as he starts to move slowly towards the door. 

Liz purses her lips but helps Red along anyway. Cooper follows them to the door, eyeing them, frowning. He only looks away to quickly call two agents over, ordering them to keep an eye on the wounded suspects, but by the time he turns back, he sees Red and Liz arguing at the top of the stairs. 

“Lizzie, please, I can manage myself –”

“Red, don’t be ridiculous, you’re limping and you’ve lost a lot of blood –”

“Lizzie, I’m not –” 

“Red, I just –” 

Cooper watches quietly, thoroughly confused, as they begin to talk over one another, until Liz suddenly stops talking and just stares at Reddington. Red snaps his mouth shut in response, eyeing her suspiciously.

“Raymond, please let me help you, I’m scared you’re gonna fall.” Liz says softly, sincerely, pleadingly.

Cooper watches as Red’s pinched expression slowly melts into one of intense tenderness. 

Cooper suddenly feels very uncomfortable.

In a gesture so quick that Cooper almost doesn’t see, Reddington reaches up to touch Liz’s face, the same way she touched him a few minutes before, quickly caressing her cheek. He then gently puts his arm around Liz’s shoulders, allowing her to support some of his weight as they slowly descend the stairs together.

Cooper sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

He doesn’t get paid enough for this.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short established Lizzington sick fic with a sick Red and a caring Liz. And TV. Cause why not?

**“Yikes. Your fever really came back with a vengeance, huh?”**

Liz shuffles into her apartment, closing the door quietly behind her, not having the energy for anything more enthusiastic.

She’s so tired.

She can’t wait to just collapse onto her couch and spend a few mind-numbing hours there watching trashy TV before stumbling into her bedroom and sleeping forever.

Red’s gone on a business trip for the weekend so it’s not like they could spend any time together anyway, Liz thinks bitterly.

She throws her purse onto the entryway table without looking, not really caring if it actually lands there or not.

What should she watch? Hoarders, definitely, and then maybe catch up on Shark Week or re-watch The Offi—

She stops in her tracks in the living room.

There is a familiar, suit-clad form curled up on her couch, shivering and sniffling, twitching in a fitful sleep.

Red.

He’s supposed to be in Albania right now, at least that’s where he said he was going when they talked on the phone this morning. He also mentioned that he’d had a small fever last night but he’d claimed it was barely there and “actually mostly gone, Lizzie”.

Clearly, that was not the case.

Liz hurries over to the couch, crouching next to his head, all traces of fatigue forgotten. She puts a gentle hand to his forehead and it is hot to the touch. 

“Yikes. Your fever really came back with a vengeance, huh?” she whispers to him.

His eyelids flutter open at her voice and he blinks blearily at her.

“I’m sorry for showing up unannounced, Lizzie. Dembe wouldn’t let me go to Albania.” His voice is scratchy and deep but he still manages to pout, sounding like a sick little boy that had to stay home from a field trip to the fire station. Liz can’t help but smile.

“So, I have Dembe to thank for dumping you with me?” she teases him.

Red’s eyes are slipping shut again.

“No,” he mumbles. “He left me at the safehouse and I got a cab here.”

Liz’s heart swells at the thought that Red, feeling sick and puny and in need of love, came to her.

She smiles wider.

“Don’t worry, Red, I’ll take care of you.” She whispers, not completely sure he’s still awake.

He hums, almost purrs really, and smiles a little to himself so she figures that the sentiment made it through the fever. 

“I know.”

She’s glad he didn’t go to Albania.

Liz snags the TV remote and the blanket from the back of the couch and, with a little bit of balancing, manages to squeeze herself in between Red’s warm body and the back of the couch, throwing the blanket over them both when she’s settled. 

She turns the TV on and scrolls idly through her Netflix queue, trying not to grin as Red squirms against her, getting comfortable. 

“What do you think, Red, The X Files or Desperate Housewives?”

“Oh, Desperate Housewives, for sure.” He mumbles, struggling to turn over to face her.

“Really?” she wouldn’t have thought he’d be caught dead watching that. 

“Oh yes,” he mumbles, finally settling down, wrapping his arm around her waist and pressing his warm face against her neck. “I love a good cat fight.”

Liz smirks. Desperate Housewives it is.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Established, apartment-sharing, domestic Lizzington with a sick, glasses-wearing Red and a quietly adoring Liz. Because I was just in that kind of mood.

**“Sounds like you lost the fight to that cold.”**

The key rattles in the lock as Liz jiggles it open, trying to balance her purse and two full grocery bags at the same time. After a long moment of struggling, Liz gets the door unlocked and she desperately kicks it open, hiking the heavier bag higher up on her hip. She staggers into her and Red’s apartment, hurrying over the threshold and nudging the door shut with her hip. She dashes over to the nearest table, the small one in the hall, and dumps all her bags onto it with a relieved sigh. She stands back to catch her breath, huffing a little and pushing her hair out of her face, shivering.

It's forty degrees outside. Almost cold enough for snow.

“Ray?” she calls into the apartment, collecting herself before shedding her heavy winter coat and throwing it over a chair.

She hears a little rustling from the living room and, after a moment, Red comes into view, dressed casually in black slacks and a white button down, feet clad in striped socks. The minute he sees her, he smiles in that way of his and she feels the winter chill evaporate from her bones. She thinks he must have been reading on the couch because he’s still wearing his reading glasses, the ones with dark frames.

She loves those glasses.

“Lizzie,” He murmurs, moving closer to press a lingering kiss to her lips. “How was the store?”

“Oh, fine,” she mutters carelessly, kissing him again. She has no interest in discussing the excited toddlers and bored employees that populate the average grocery store. She pulls back to look at him. “How are you feeling?” He was a little under the weather earlier and she’s been worried about him.

“Oh, fine,” he mocks her, grinning. 

She can’t help but grin back at him but she also can’t ignore the nasally, muffled sound of his voice, distinctly more so than it was when she left him a few hours ago. She tries not to find it appealing.

She narrows her eyes at him. “Are you sure?”

“Of course.” He says, raising his eyebrows, looking a little too innocent.

“Hmm,” she huffs. “I don’t know, sounds like you lost the fight to that cold.”

He purses his lips, suddenly very interested in the wall over her left shoulder. “No, of course not, don’t be silly, Lizzie.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, placing her hands on her hips. “And if I go into the living room, will I find a blanket nest on the couch with dirty tissues littering the coffee table?”

He glances at her and then at the floor, eyes flickering from surface to surface, clearly guilty. “Well…perhaps.”

She can’t help but smile. 

“That’s all right,” she chirps happily. “I figured you would get sick.”

“You did?” he asks, frowning.

But she’s already grabbing her grocery bags and heading to the kitchen, leaving a quietly sniffing Red to trail behind her.

“Yup,” she says, busily unpacking the bags. “So, I got you extra tissues, some cough drops, the good sinus medication, those weird green tea bags you like, and…oatmeal!” She names each item as she places them on the counter, waiting until the end to pull the tub of oats out of the last bag with a flourish.

Red just blinks, staring at all the items and then at her. “Oh, Lizzie, you didn’t have t—”

“Well, I did, so shut up.” She talks easily over him, patting his check sympathetically as she walks by, on her way to find a pan and some measuring cups.

Red frowns. “But oatmeal?” he asks, confused.

“Yup,” says Liz, measuring out a half cup of oats. “Can you get me the milk from the fridge? Oatmeal is wonderful for colds. Didn’t you know that?” she teases him. “I always try to drag myself out of bed to make it when I’m sick. It’s totally worth it. Haven’t had it in a while though.”

Red wanders thoughtfully to the fridge and mechanically retrieves the gallon of milk for her, setting on the counter next to the oats. “Hmm, I’ve never had it.”

“Well, then, you’re in for a treat.” She smiles at him over her shoulder before measuring out one cup of milk and pouring it into the saucepan, lighting the burner at the same time.

“Well, is there anything I can do to help?” he asks, sidling up behind her as she stirs the milk, wrapping his arms around her waist and nuzzling her neck.

He’s extra cuddly when he’s sick. 

She loves it.

“Depends.” 

“On?”

“On what you want in your oatmeal.”

That stumps him. “Well, what kind of things do you like?”

Oh, Red. “All sorts of things. Apples, brown sugar, bananas, honey, raisins. Anything sound good?”

He thinks for a moment. “Apples, I think.”

“Okay. Feel well enough to peel and dice?”

“I think I can manage.” He nibbles at her ear.

“Get to work then.” She giggles and squirms in his arms.

He presses a quick kiss to her neck before moving away to fetch an apple from the fridge.

They work in companionable silence, occasionally talking quietly together, as they go about their respective tasks, Liz stirring and Red peeling. 

Soon the oatmeal is bubbling and Liz pours it into their favorite bowls, her striped yellow one and Red’s chipped blue one. Red divides the apples between the bowls and Liz grabs the cinnamon from the spice cabinet to shake a little over each.

They take their bowls into the living room, where Red hands Liz his bowl to hastily dismantle his blanket nest and gather his dirty tissues. Liz rolls her eyes good naturedly, waiting patiently, smiling at him. 

He’s so predictable.

As soon as he’s done, they settle into the couch, covering up with his blankets, the worn red one for Liz and the soft green one for Red. She waits until he stirs his apples and cinnamon into his oatmeal and takes an enthusiastic bite. 

Red is a fearless eater. 

He chews slowly, thoughtfully and Liz watches as his eyes light up behind his glasses, and he smiles at her. 

Her sweet man. 

He swallows quickly. “This is delicious, Lizzie.”

“Good.” She tucks his blanket more securely around his shoulders, trying not to obviously fuss over him. It’s not an easy task.

He takes her hand and squeezes before going back to his oatmeal.

She watches him for a long moment and then turns away to tuck into her own bowl.

It’s even better than she remembers.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short, established Lizzington, a little disjointed, from a sick Red's perspective.

**“At least rest until your fever’s down.”**

Red sighs, staring Lizzie down across the spacious aisle of his private jet. Her arms and legs are both crossed and her eyes are hard sapphires boring into him. He pushes his chest out, refusing to be beaten by her. Because what she’s asking for is completely ridiculous. Illogical, really. Nonsensical. 

She wants him to sleep for the flight. 

They are on their way to Barbados to “meet a contact”, which was the flimsy excuse Red truly can’t believe Harold bought, when the more accurate statement would have been “see Lizzie in the skimpiest red bathing suit his money can buy”.

But Lizzie had taken one look at his eyes (“bloodshot, Ray”), his nose (“running like a faucet, Ray”), and felt his forehead (“burning up, Ray”) and ordered him to bed. On his own jet. 

Of course, there is a perfectly comfortable master bedroom suite in the back of the jet, that’s true, but he doesn’t need to nap like a child. Even if he is feeling a little woozy and hot. But just a little. 

“Ray.” 

He feels his resolve weaken just a little when she says his first name. He loves it when she calls him that. And she knows it. So, he mentally stamps his foot and clenches his jaw, jutting his chin out defiantly.

“I’m perfectly fine, Lizzie.”

It’s her turn to sigh, rolling her eyes and standing up in one fluid motion. He cranes his neck as she comes close to him, looking up at her, eyes narrowed. Her gaze is softer now, the blue a warm cornflower, posture lean and relaxed, no sharp edges. She looks down at him lovingly.

He doesn’t trust her.

“At least rest until your fever’s down.” She croons.

“There’s no need.” He says stiffly.

“If you go lay down, I’ll wear whatever bathing suit you want.”

His eyebrows raise. 

“Perhaps I am a little sleepy.”

She smirks and does an about face, striding easily towards the bedroom.

He follows her.

(As always.)

He gets comfortable on the bed and she throws a quilt over him, effectively tucking him in. He would protest at the coddling but his eyelids are already getting heavy and that warm quilt does feel good, he hadn’t realized how cold he was, and a little nap really won’t hurt, will it?

She tucks the quilt up around his neck and pats his shoulder before turning to leave but his hand darts out from under the quilt to grab her wrist.

“Why don’t you stay with me?” he is aiming for deep and flirtatious but he thinks all he gets is deep and congested. Real sexy.

“Will you rest?” she asks skeptically.

“Of course. I’ll sleep deeply and dream of tiny bathing suits if you’re here in my arms.” He leers at her.

She rolls her eyes. “Big spoon or little spoon?”

“Big.”

He wants to hold her.

(As always.)

She nods and lays down in front of him facing away, towards the wall. He wraps his arms around her waist and buries his face in her hair. They both sigh contentedly.

Tropical islands and vacations are all well and good but there’s something to be said for napping and snuggling with his Lizzie.

(And tiny bathing suits.)


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liz mother hen-ing over a sick Red. Dembe's POV.

**“You said it was just a cold last week and you’re still not better!” and “This medicine must be expired or something, it isn’t helping at all.”**

Bang! Crash! Slam!

Dembe sits tensely on the couch, attempting to make himself as small and unnoticeable as possible (not an easy feat) as he watches Liz rampage through Raymond’s Bethesda apartment. This is not the first time she has done this but, today, it is not out of rage or frustration for Raymond. Quite the opposite, in fact. 

Elizabeth is worried for Raymond. Why, Dembe doesn’t quite know, but he’s relatively sure that what he’s witnessing is a display of affection. 

He thinks.

Elizabeth has odd ways of expressing her feelings. 

She is pacing back and forth across the living room, first moving Raymond’s things around, making another pass or two in front of the couch, and then moving them back to the way they were originally, all the while keeping up a steady stream of reprimands and comments to Raymond. 

“– and it doesn’t make sense that you’re not healthy yet, it really doesn’t, your immune system is stronger than this, I know it is, I’ve seen you survive gunshot wounds, I swear to God, and this is nothing compared to that, so what exactly is taking so long, I just don’t –”

Raymond sits calmly next to Dembe on the couch, lap covered with a blanket and various head cold necessities set out on the small table next to him, courtesy of Liz, of course. His eyes track Liz’s every moment as she paces through the apartment shouting at no one in particular, the usual look (a mixture of wonder, appreciation, and awe) on his face as he watches her. He seems to feel no need to stop Liz or ask her questions, content to sit out of her way and wait for her to get it all out.

That is often the best way with Elizabeth.

“– and I think it comes down to that doctor, I really do, I never trusted him, I don’t care what you say, I just don’t think he’s qualified, I mean what does he have to say for himself compared to that other doctor who practiced in Bangladesh for all those years, with the variety of illnesses she must have treated there, I wanted her, but no, you just had to have the other doctor, of course –”

Dembe gives a little sigh and subtly glances at his watch, the only signal of impatience he has displayed since Liz began her tirade about half an hour ago, after she heard Raymond sneeze twice in a row.

Raymond doesn’t turn to look at Dembe but, then again, he doesn’t need to. He knows him well enough after all these years to sense his irritation. Raymond chooses this time to speak.

“Lizzie, it’s only a cold.” 

He is quiet, in no way trying to overpower Liz, just issuing a polite reminder of the reality of the situation in the same way he might comment on the weather.

Liz doesn’t appreciate it.

“You said it was just a cold last week and you’re still not better! I think it’s something more serious, I mean, if it wasn’t, you’d be better by now! It could be the flu or some kind of infection or a weird bug you picked up when you were in Malaysia last week! And why not – oh – hang on –”

And Liz turns on her heel and strides purposefully towards the back hallway. Dembe hears her stomp all the way past the two back bedrooms and throw open the door to the bathroom, her harsh words continuing but the volume of her voice blessedly decreasing as she gets further away. He makes to follow her but Raymond quickly waves him off. Dembe raises his eyebrows but says nothing, relaxing back into the couch. 

There isn’t much that Raymond won’t allow Elizabeth to do.

Dembe continues to listen as the medicine cabinet door is yanked open and the contents clattered around, all over the faint sound of Liz still shouting. (Dembe thinks he hears something about Raymond’s “stupid, stubborn, ridiculously attractive ass” but he’s not sure.) It only takes a minute before Liz’s voice starts to grow louder again, words becoming more distinguishable, as she moves back down the hall and bursts into the room brandishing a small orange bottle of pills.

“– because this is what the doctor gave you isn’t it? How long have you been taking this, four days? Well, this medicine must be expired or something, it isn’t helping at all, that much is obvious to anyone with eyes and a brain, so I don’t know who you think you’re fooling when I just –”

Dembe watches as Raymond simply crosses his legs, adjusts his blankets, and continues to quietly observe Liz, a glint in his eyes that tells Dembe he has no plans to stop her any time soon.

Dembe sighs again, slumping into the couch. He’d better make himself comfortable.

This could be a long evening.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red’s POV when he’s under the influence of opium in the beginning of Cape May. All aboard the angst train!

**13\. “I thought you were dead.”**

A small oriental lady stands above Red holding a needle and syringe. She raises her eyebrows in question and Red simply nods, extending his arm. As she sticks him with the needle, Red blinks slowly, eyes drooping shut as opium is injected into his bloodstream, sweet relief unfurling languidly in his veins. He is dimly conscious of rolling himself to lay on his side before succumbing completely to the drug, slipping out of the world around him and traveling to the land of dreaming. 

He slowly becomes aware of the trance-like state he has landed in. He is lying on a bed, just like he is back in that filthy den of addicts, but here he is in a beautiful bedroom with walls painted a light blue, a tall sloped ceiling, and ornate oak furniture. He is facing two gilded French doors that are standing open, white lacy curtains on either side floating gently in the breeze wafting in from outside. 

Red sighs. What a beautiful place. He can happily rest here, undisturbed, not bothered by the crushing guilt and depression and pain that is slowly suffocating him in the real world, a result of Li—

No. He can’t think her name, even here. It hurts too much. 

He quickly shoves aside these painful thoughts. It’s not difficult, here in this pleasant place. He can barely remember what sadness feels like, thanks to the substance coursing through his veins, spreading endorphins throughout his body.

It is his only escape.

He sighs again, about to close his eyes and feel the breeze on his face, enjoy this blessed relief while he still can but he suddenly sees movement through the French doors. 

He squints outside, trying to make out the shape that seems to be getting bigger. A person. A woman, moving towards him, wearing a flowing white dress that matches the curtains she’s about to pass through – 

Red gasps.

_Lizzie._

He stares, unblinking, eyes drinking in the sight of her desperately, heart pounding, aching for her.

“Lizzie,” He breathes, unable to say any more.

She stands there, in the doorway, framed by the undulating curtains, looking unearthly in her beauty. Her hair is dark and long, the way he likes it, framing her pale face, which is smooth and free of makeup. Her sky-blue eyes stare directly at him, her soft pink lips tugging upward at his murmur. 

“Raymond,” She answers softly.

(Red knows in that moment that he is doomed to hear this hallucination, this illusion of Lizzie say his name as he last heard it, slipping out from between her dry lips as a weak, breathless gasp as her eyes slipped shut for the last time.

What an excruciating kind of hell.) 

She is still staring at him, waiting for him to speak to her. 

What can he possibly say to the woman whose death he caused on the very heels of her only child’s birth?

Some part of his brain makes the decision to voice his confusion and wonder at seeing her here, with him. 

“I thought you were dead.”

She smiles at him again. 

He thinks the beauty of that sight might break him.

“Oh, I am,” She states simply, completely unaware of the awful pain that cuts through Red at that simple statement.

(Any foolish hope he was holding onto in his heart of hearts that Lizzie could, perhaps, be alive and happy, here with him, is ruthlessly squashed. 

What a foolish old man he is.)

“But don’t worry,” She murmurs to him. 

“Don’t _worry_?” he repeats, his voice deep and cracking. He sounds broken. “How can I not worry, Lizzie, when I’m the reason you’re _dead_?” His voice rises slowly as he speaks and he ends up at a tearful yell by the last word. 

At his distress, Lizzie’s face unexpectedly crumbles and she moves in one sudden, graceful movement to rush towards him, crouching down to be level with his face at the side of the bed.

He is stunned into silence by her sudden closeness. 

“No, no, Raymond, don’t cry,” she croons, looking at him in a way she never did when she was alive.

At her statement, he suddenly feels the tears drenching his face. How long had he been crying? Are his tears real? Is _any_ of this even _real_?

“It’s alright, Ray,” she whispers to him and brings her hand up to gently touch his face. 

He pushes his face desperately into her hand, closing his eyes to relish the warmth of her, so desperate to banish that awful memory of pressing her cold, dead hand to his cheek in the back of that fucking ambulance.

“It’s not alright,” he murmurs, his lips brushing her fingers as they form his words.

“Why not?” she asks, the innocent curiosity in her voice ripping through him painfully.

“…Because I can’t live without you.”

This whisper, for her and only for her, his deepest darkest secret, is torn from his body like a knife. 

(He will never utter it again, not to anyone but her, here in this place where nothing is real except his pain.)

“Oh, Ray,” she whispers sadly. “You must.”

“No,” he whimpers, opening his eyes, suddenly desperate to look at her, afraid her words will make her disappear, wrenching her away from him once more. More tears fall to wet her fingers on his face but she takes no notice.

“You must,” she repeats sadly, almost pleading, eyes roving his face. “But for now, I’ll lie with you.”

And then she is standing smoothly and gently pushing him into the middle of the bed. He does as her hands bid him, completely at her mercy. How can he not be? After all, she’s gone and it’s _all his fault_.

And then he is stunned once again as she climbs onto the bed beside him, laying down to face him, mirroring him, his perfect opposite, with her hair falling in thick black tresses onto the pillow and her blue eyes, much softer than they ever were in real life, staring lovingly at his face. 

He stares for at her beautiful face for a minute, desperately trying to commit its angelic glow to his memory and replace that image of her ashy face lying lax and still and _lifeless_ on a hospital bed.

He raises his hand slowly, tentatively to brush the pads of his fingers against her cheek, waiting for her to jerk away from him as she would have in reality. But, instead, she turns her face gently into his fingers, closing her eyes, humming contentedly.

_Oh, Lizzie_.

But then the superb clarity with which he has been viewing her face starts to fizzle and splinter, the bright light surrounding her dimming. 

“No,” he gasps, reaching blindly for her. “No, Lizzie, no, come back –”

“Raymond…” he hears her voice, faint and getting softer. “Raymond, I do love…”

Her last words. He will be forever haunted by her last unfinished statement, never knowing, always wondering how should would have finished it. 

A fitting punishment.

And then he is lying on a small bed, cold and alone, being shaken awake by a small oriental lady, hidden in a den of opium addicts, a crippling pain slowly returning to his body.

_Lizzie_.

“No,” he mutters, trying weakly to throw off the hand shaking him. “No, I want another…”

His words are slurred and unclear, an awful combination of the dregs of the opium and the sheer panic of being taken away from Lizzie. 

_Not again_.

“No, Mr. Reddington, you must go.”

He can’t. He can’t do it. He _can’t_. 

“Mr. Reddington.”

Doomed. He is doomed.

Cape May. He’ll go to Cape May.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An overprotective Red, an exasperated Lizzie, and a teething Agnes.

**32\. “You could have died.”**

Red stops outside Lizzie’s apartment door, leaning lightly against the door frame to gather himself before knocking. 

It was a rough day for the task force and Red has been there with them every step of the way.

The day started early with surprise intel on their suspect and Red arranging a meeting with some shady and poorly educated guns for hire that may or may not have had information on their suspect. Lizzie had insisted on accompanying him, citing her importance as middle man to the task force and her general know-how as a government official. He had relented, despite an odd tingling in the back of his skull telling him not to. 

He’ll never ignore that again. 

The gang had been dumb as rocks but much too trigger happy for Red’s taste. After a rather tasteless joke on Red’s part in an attempt to start out on the right foot (something about the collective number of brain cells in the room), the thugs had started brandishing their firearms threateningly, safeties off. 

It was nothing he, Dembe, and Baz couldn’t have handled but he was suddenly worried for Lizzie, standing stiffly next to him, fingers twitching to her own gun. He knows she can take care of herself (she also wears a knife strapped to her calf, a fact which he tries hard not to think about on a daily basis, for his own mental stability) but he suddenly has a vision of a gun going off with a bang, intentionally or otherwise, and turning to see Lizzie laying on the floor of the warehouse, red slowly soaking the fabric of her blouse. 

He is determined to never see that particular nightmare play out anywhere but in his head while he is asleep in his bed, sweaty and tangled in the sheets, yelling for Lizzie to watch out.

So, Red quickly moves to stand in front of Lizzie, blocking her from the leers and bullets of the imbeciles he is trying to reason with. He has no reason to, other than his own paranoia, and Lizzie knows it. He hears her huff from behind him and he can almost feel her eyes rolling but he stays carefully blocking her for the duration of the meeting.

He’d rather have her annoyed than dead.

They’d made it out just fine, of course, he and Dembe and Baz and Lizzie, and only once they were back at the post office did the strange buzzing in the back of his head fade enough to move more than a foot away from Lizzie and stop shadowing her like she was a big blue planet and he was a small cold moon stuck helplessly in her orbit. 

(He needs to stop reading so much poetry.)

He’d taken the opportunity to escape to the big yellow elevator, telling himself repeatedly that she was obviously safe here in a secret government facility surrounded by dozens of other armed government agents, and trying to banish the image of her bleeding out on the warehouse floor. 

He hadn’t seen Lizzie staring strangely after him as the elevator doors closed behind him. 

She had called him late that evening when the team had finally called it a day and asked him to stop by her apartment on his way back to his current safehouse if he had the time.

He was, of course, already showered and in his cotton sleep pants and t-shirt, playing chess with Dembe and drinking his nighttime tumbler of scotch, but he’d calmly put a fresh suit on and climbed in the driver’s seat of the car, waving off Dembe when he’d heaved himself up off the couch, rubbing his eyes, protesting that he wasn’t too tried to drive. 

No need to make Dembe get up when he was perfectly capable of driving himself the few miles to Lizzie’s apartment, not when this particular safehouse was chosen solely for its proximity to her, for nights like this.

(Lizzie doesn’t know this.)

So, Red had climbed the three flights of stairs, the thought of Lizzie (and maybe a glimpse of a peaceful, sleeping Agnes) propelling him to the top, and now here he is, waiting for her to open the door.

He hears movement on the other side before the door is opened and there is Lizzie, dressed in soft looking yoga pants and a too big Quantico hoodie, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, face free of make-up and a very awake Agnes perched on her hip.

Red gapes for a moment. Lizzie has never looked more beautiful. 

Agnes coos in Lizzie’s arms and Red is turns his attention to her. She is growing so fast, about seven months old now, strong enough to sit up on her own. Agnes has one fist gripping the hood of Lizzie’s hoodie and the other hand tugging gently on one of the strings. She also has a teething ring in her mouth which Red expects is the reason for her wakefulness at this hour. 

Is it teething time already?

As she sees Red, Agnes drops the hoodie string and reaches for him with one tiny hand, smiling her gummy little baby smile and he feels his heart warm from the inside out.

Lizzie watches this quiet exchange with a fond, faraway smile and nods to Agnes. 

“You wanna hold her?”

Red can only nod back, too happy to speak. 

Lizzie passes Agnes off carefully to Red and ushers him into the apartment at the same time, closing the door behind him. 

Red moves into the small but cozy living area, easily stepping over the few toys strewn across the carpet, making faces at Agnes as she giggles and pats his cheek with her little hand. 

“Can I get you anything to drink?” Lizzie asks politely.

“No, thank you,” Red answers quietly, unwilling to take his attention from Agnes. 

This is enough.

Lizzie lets him entertain Agnes for a few minutes, watching quietly, before she speaks, revealing why she asked him to come over this late at night.

“Red, I wanted to ask you something,” Lizzie begins tentatively.

“About?” Red inquires, finally turning away from Agnes who thoroughly enjoyed his funny faces and is now happily grasping his finger.

“Today, in the warehouse, you stepped in front of me.”

Ah. He should have known she wouldn’t let it go. 

“Yes,” answers simply. 

“Why? I mean those idiots were more stupid than dangerous, really, but even so I can handle myself.”

“I’m well aware, Lizzie,” Red sighs, turning to sit in the comfortable looking armchair in the corner, adjusting Agnes in his arms as he does so. 

“So why did you do it? Put yourself in danger like that for me?”

Why did he do it? Because she is dear to him? Because she has this sleepy little one in his arms to come home to every evening? Because his first and only instinct is to protect her from harm? Because she is one of the only things he values in this life anymore? Because she is so deeply ingrained in his crippled old soul that he can’t imagine a life without her in it?

Something like that.

“Because,” he says simply, shrugging a little helplessly.

“Oh, Red,” Lizzie sighs, a little exasperated. She drops onto the couch opposite him, sweeping some escaped strands of hair behind her ear. “That was dangerous, what if something had actually happened?”

Red shakes his head. “They were common thugs, Lizzie, Dembe and Baz would have had them all on the ground before they could do any damage.”

“Then why did you step in front of me? What if you were shot because you were trying to protect me, quite needlessly, I might add? You could have died. And then what would happen to me? And Agnes?”

Red glances down at the baby, who now has a fist full of his vest and is trying desperately to keep her eyes open, fighting sleep, gazing up at Red through bleary blue eyes. 

Red smiles at her and rubs her little back, watching as her eyes slip closed at the sensation, finally succumbing to sleep.

“You and Agnes would be well looked after, Lizzie, don’t worry,” Red murmurs, not wanting to disturb Agnes.

“That’s not what I mean, Red, and I think you know that,” Lizzie says, quieter to match his volume and not wake her dozing daughter. “We care about you, the two of us. We need you to be careful. Agnes would be terribly unhappy if you stopped visiting, you see.”

Red tears his gazes away from Agnes to look at Lizzie, who he is startled to see staring at him not unlike her daughter was a few seconds ago, with a strange light in her eyes.

Love.

“Do you understand?” she whispers.

“Yes,” he murmurs, a little stunned, looking at her arms wrapped around her waist, looking small and vulnerable in her big hoodie. “I can’t promise to stop protecting you, Lizzie,” – he ignores her frustrated huff – “but I can promise to be more careful. For Agnes’ sake.” He smiles at her teasingly.

She gives him a watery smile in response. “Good.”

Agnes takes that moment to snuggle closer to him in her sleep and he tucks her head under his chin, kissing her lightly on top of her sweet-smelling hair. Lizzie smiles at that before she is overtaken by a huge yawn, hastily covering her mouth.

Red smiles. He remembers all too well the sleeplessness of these early days. 

“How about I stay for a bit and you grab a few hours of sleep, Lizzie? I’ll watch Agnes, don’t worry.”

“She passed out pretty quickly on you, I’m surprised. I couldn’t get her to sleep for anything. She’s been so restless lately. The doctor says she’s got a tooth coming in, completely normal. But now that she’s asleep, I can’t say I’d be thrilled to move her and wake her up. Do you mind?”

She is already starting to blink more heavily at the very mention of sleep.

“Yes, Lizzie, I’m sure,” Red assures her, gently.

“Okay,” she mutters, grabbing a throw blanket off the back of the couch and tossing a few pillows to one end, wasting no time in getting to her well-deserved nap. “But wake me up in an hour so you can go home.”

She is asleep within minutes. 

Red leans back carefully in the armchair, taking turns staring at the sweet baby asleep on his chest and the beautiful woman asleep on the couch across from him, both their mouths open and drooling.

Like mother, like daughter. 

He’ll stay here with them tonight, watching over them, just like he promised. 

He’ll wake Lizzie in the morning.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by prompts and the 5.8 fall finale promos. Tom reveals Red’s feelings to Liz before he dies and she confronts Red about it. Angst.

**4\. “I should have told you a long time ago.” and 34. “I might never get another chance to say this.”**

They stand there, facing each other, just on opposite sides of the room, but somehow it feels as though the whole world is in between them. 

Lizzie is standing there, her arms wrapped tightly around her middle, staring at him with an inscrutable expression on her face. He can’t tell what she’s thinking by looking at her so he just stares back, terrified. He feels as though his whole heart is there on the floor in front of her, the poor shriveled, battered thing. 

It might as well be.

He had opened his hotel door just minutes ago, about to leave for her apartment, to see if there was anything he could do for her in the wake of Tom’s death, and instead he had found her there, sitting on the floor in the hallway outside his door, back against the wall, arms wrapped around her knees, staring blankly at nothing.

“Lizzie!” he’d gasped, quickly crouching down next to her and reaching out to touch her arm, something that had become quite commonplace between them recently.

But she’d jerked away from his touch like it burned her. 

His heart had stuttered in his chest.

Tom told her.

Earlier today, when Red had confronted Tom for the last time, Tom had arrogantly told him that he had figured out the contents of the suitcase and, given that Lizzie’s real father was stuffed in there, then the Red he was talking to must be hiding something decidedly non-paternal. Red was furious and threatened and bribed and begged Tom to keep the information to himself, for Lizzie’s sake, if nothing else. But Tom had simply smirked and slipped away like the vile snake that he is. And the next time Red saw Tom, he was dead from his injuries, afflicted by the very people Red was trying to protect Lizzie from. But Lizzie had seen him before he died. 

And judging by the look on her face, Tom told Lizzie. 

Tom told Lizzie everything. 

Oh, God. 

Lizzie knows. Lizzie knows how he feels. His deepest, darkest secret in now out in the open, known by the very object of his feelings.

So, it makes sense that it feels like his heart is now existing outside of his body.

It has always been Lizzie’s anyway.

She stares at him now, inside his hotel room, her face pale and drawn and her eyes big and blue. 

“Is it true?”

“Is what true?” he croaks. He’s so scared.

“About my father? That you took his identity and his bones are in a suitcase?”

“Yes.”

She makes an awful wheezing sound, a shaking hand coming up to cover her face, and he takes a step towards her in concern. But she takes two steps back.

She’s afraid of him. 

God, this is excruciating.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you let me believe…” she trails off helplessly and he hurries to answer her, strangely relieved now that he can.

“I couldn’t, you couldn’t know your father’s true identity, it was too dangerous for you. I was trying to protect you, Lizzie.”

“So, you took his name.” she looks vaguely horrified at the thought. 

He can certainly relate.

“It was best if your enemies thought your father was still alive somewhere. Then you would be of no interest to them.”

“But why?” she gasps. “You had a family of your own, why would you give your whole life up for me, a child?”

“I didn’t have a family, not then.” Red murmurs, desperate to explain, feeling twenty pounds lighter already. “They were already gone, murdered, as I thought, by the Cabal. I had nothing left in life, no wife, no child, no nothing. And there you were, both parents dead, or as good as, an orphan, alone, with nothing and no one. I…related to you. We were both alone. In a way, all we had was each other. And, after all, your parents were gone ultimately because of me. I felt responsible. So, I decided to take you to Sam and I would fight the Cabal, those people that changed both our lives forever, and try to keep you happy and healthy and safe for as long as I was alive. It…didn’t turn out the way I expected.”

“No,” she breathes and that look is back in her eyes, that awful fear and wariness and panic. “Tom said…He said that you have…feelings.”

He almost laughs out loud, that simple word sounding nothing like the viscous emotions that course through his veins whenever she is near. 

“Yes,” he whispers, unable to elaborate, his stomach in knots, his heart pounding, the stupid useless thing. 

“And how long have you…had those?”

How long? Does he even know when it really started? Perhaps when he attended her college graduation ceremony, high up in the bleachers, a fedora pulled low over his eyes, and was completely stunned by her, her beauty, her intelligence, her demeanor. Perhaps it had been the surveillance photos Tom had obtained in the early days, showing her going about her life, happy and ordinary. Perhaps it was the wedding photos that sent him stumbling into the desert, high off his ass, searching for something, anything that wasn’t as sick and twisted as he felt. And perhaps it had been when she had walked down the stairs in an FBI blacksite, glowing like an angel, that he had truly fallen for her. 

He works his mouth.

“A while.”

Liz blanches. “But how long?” she presses. “Like…since I was young?”

“No!” he spits, disgusted, and making her jump. He bites his cheek, fighting to stay calm and not start yelling or burst into tears or kiss her. He’s not sure which one is more likely.

“No, nothing like that,” he says, quieter. “It was a process…But around when we started working together. Maybe a little before.” He mumbles.

Why is it so hard to define love? Wouldn’t it be so much easier if he could give her a date and time? _Why, yes, Lizzie, I fell in love with you at exactly 3:57pm on December 3, 2001, when you were 27 years old. See, not creepy at all._

God. He’s losing his mind. 

Meanwhile, she’s still looking small and afraid on the other side of the room. He can’t stand this.

“Lizzie…” he tries to take another step forward but she takes three more back immediately and would have taken more if her back hadn’t hit the wall with a dull thud. 

She’s killing him. He always knew she would. 

“Lizzie, please…” he murmurs, desperately. “I never meant to, that is, you were never supposed to know. It’s my burden, not yours. I would never presume, or ask, or suggest that, oh, Lizzie, please…” 

And her eyes are welling with tears and they’re spilling over onto her cheeks and, oh god, he’s just making it worse, he can’t do this, his heart is aching, out there on the floor, and his throat is tightening and, Jesus, is he going to cry too?

“Lizzie…I should have told you a long time ago but I just couldn’t bear for you to look at me the way you’re looking at me right now, it’s too much and I can’t…” 

And now tears are slipping down his cheeks and for some reason that seems to undo her and she’s openly sobbing now, hands pressed over her face and she’ll never come back after this, he’ll never see her again, he’ll die alone and pathetic as he’s always suspected and if this is his last chance, then he has to tell her now. He is suddenly certain of it. If he feels lighter now, then he’ll feel completely unburdened if he tells her and that would be nice, wouldn’t it? Yes, he must. 

“Lizzie…I might never get another chance to say this.”

And she’s ripping her hands away from her face and shaking her head frantically, gasping for air in between sobs, pressing herself back against the wall as if that’s the only thing keeping her up. He thinks he hears the word “don’t” a few times, her eyes pleading with him, but he has to tell her, he has to, he can’t do without, she has to know, he – 

“Lizzie, _I love you_.”

She goes curiously silent at his words, squeezing her eyes shut and pressing her hands to her mouth once again.

He wonders blankly what she’s trying to hold in.

And then she’s moving, running for the door, desperate to get out, get away from him, and he can’t blame her, doesn’t move to stop her, doesn’t speak. 

He doesn’t do anything but drop to his knees on the hardwood floor right as the door slams shut behind her for the last time, tears streaming down his face, pain radiating through his entire body.

He was wrong. He doesn’t feel better, lighter, not at all. In fact, he’s never felt worse in his whole life, never felt so completely empty and cold. But he supposes it makes sense.

She took his heart with her.


	23. Chapter 23

**48\. “You make me want things I can’t have.” and 49. “I don’t want to screw this up.”**

Red’s back hits the bed as Lizzie tackles him, giggling all the way. 

“I thought you said we have to leave,” Red says, his voice deep, his hands holding her securely around the waist, though she is quite happily perched on top of him, her knees on either side of his hips.

“Yeah, whatever. I’m sure we have a few minutes,” she mutters carelessly, leaning forward to kiss him enthusiastically.

He can’t help but indulge for a few minutes, pulling her close and plundering her mouth, their tongues tangling, feeling her body relax on top of his.

She eventually pulls away (too soon) with a smack of their lips, taking in a deep breath and letting it out in a low whistle.

“Well, Red, you are a damn good kisser, I have to say. I feel like thanks are in order,” she murmurs appreciatively, her eyes on his lips, which are no doubt red and puffy from her attention.

Red loves the thrill that goes through him at her heated gaze, one he has previously only imagined could be directed at him. He smiles indulgently. 

“Thank you, you’re not so bad yourself, sweetheart,” he says lowly. “And, believe you me, Lizzie, it is completely my pleasure.” He runs his hands slowly over her sides and then down lower to slip his hands in the back pockets of her slacks.

She grins, her eyes drifting closed as she leans in to ghost her lips over his neck. “Couldn’t you call Cooper and say you have to whisk me away for a case or something? I have absolutely no interest in going back to the Post Office today.”

Red looks at her, hardly believing she is here with him (on top of him, no less), not wanting to leave either. She presses a gentle kiss to his clavicle and his heart constricts at the sensation. He never thought he’d be here. Feeling a surge of pure love and thankfulness for her, he pulls his hands out of her pockets and wraps his arms around her waist instead, pressing her close to him. He just wants to hold her for a moment.

Lizzie’s eyes open as she feels his mood change.

“What is it?” she murmurs, her voice softening as she takes in his expression.

He takes a moment to try and figure out how to adequately express his feelings. “You make me want things I can’t have,” he finally says quietly, tucking a wayward strand of her hair back behind her ear.

“And who says you can’t have them?” she asks quietly. “We’re just getting started with this, Red, who knows where it’ll go,” she strokes his cheek, fingers tracing his sideburns tenderly. “I’d rather not put boundaries on things right out of the gate. Are you expecting bad things to happen?” she finishes with a teasing note in her voice.

“I don’t want to screw this up,” he mumbles, shrugging and feeling a little silly now.

“Tell you what, I won’t let you,” she says, grinning at him. “I promise to keep you in line, how’s that?”

“Okay,” he murmurs, a little star struck by her twinkling blue eyes, but truly feeling better now, having successfully navigated his doubt with her help.

She runs her hand lovingly over his head, lightly scratching his scalp. “Don’t worry so much, Ray,” she whispers, and warmth fills him at the sound of his given name slipping from her lips so naturally. “Let’s just enjoy where we are right now. Okay?”

Red blinks at her. She’s right, of course. He’s making a big deal out of nothing, as usual. He shakes himself and realizes what a pity it is that Lizzie is still perched on top of him and he’s done relatively little about it.

He should change that.

“Okay,” he says and, with no warning, flips them over so that he is pressing her gently into the mattress. She squeals in surprise, laughing delightedly as he attacks her neck with little nips and kisses. “Then I guess I have to make a phone call to Harold, don’t I?”

She laughs joyously.

They’ll be just fine.


	24. Chapter 24

**45\. “How much of that did you hear?”**  
**44\. “I still remember the way you taste.”**  
**35\. “Do you regret it?”**  
**36\. “Tell me I’m wrong.”**

Liz sighs, slamming her car door shut with as much force as she can muster and trudging up the driveway to the front door of Red’s latest safe house, wishing with every part of her that a meteor would fall from the sky and just kill her.

Cooper has forced her to drive an hour and a half outside of the city to talk to Red and get the latest on their current case. And Red is probably the last person she wants to talk to right now. Or maybe for the rest of her life.

Why?

Because she and Red had sex last night. 

They were both totally drunk, of course, staking out a nightclub for hours and hours into the night in an effort to catch their blacklister and for some reason Liz just kept ordering rounds. At first, she only pretended to drink them (she has some sense of duty, after all) but then it passed midnight and she was technically off the clock and they played her favorite song on the dance floor and suddenly she realized exactly how long it has been since she had a fun night out. 

So, she started throwing them back.

Red had raised his eyebrows, surprised (and a little turned on, she figured out later), and had quickly followed suit, downing glass after glass of scotch in a self-proclaimed effort to keep up with her. And then, after her fourth or fifth tequila shot, Liz dragged him onto the dance floor where things proceeded to get interesting.

(Red can dance. Dirty.) 

Before too long, they were both danced-out, hammered, and leaning on each other, giggling like crazy. She suspects that the bartender cut them off and ordered them a cab because the next thing she knew she was tucked in a car backseat in the dark, her hand on Red’s thigh and Red’s hot breath ruffling her hair, speeding towards his safehouse. By the time they stumbled through the door, they were making out and, well…they barely made it to his bedroom. 

Liz comes to a stop in front of the door now, exactly where she and Red had struggled with the keys last night, giggling loudly with hands wandering bravely, and squeezes her eyes shut, trying to banish last night’s hazy memories. It hadn’t been a bad one-night stand, as one-night stands go. In fact, it was one of the best nights Liz has had in a long time. Red was…amazing, actually. And, surprisingly, she finds herself thinking that she wouldn’t mind a repeat performance at some point. 

That is, should would, except for the fact that this morning, after waking up naked and tangled with Red, her head pillowed on his strong chest, warm and content (albeit with a raging headache and an awful dry mouth), she had panicked. She had leapt out of bed, completely terrified, wasting no time in getting dressed, and left, with Red only waking up as she was grabbing her bag and hurrying out the door. He only had time to prop himself up on his elbows and call her name in a deep morning voice that she had a very hard time ignoring.

They haven’t spoken since. 

And now, here she is, her headache still pounding lightly behind her eyes, being forced to speak to him long before she is really ready to, all because of stupid work. She huffs, glancing towards the sky and making a last desperate plea for that meteor. This will teach her not to sleep with her coworkers.

With an internal groan, Liz decides to just get it over with already and she knocks on the door with a roll of her eyes. But before she can perhaps change her mind, maybe turn around and make a break for her car, she realizes that the door isn’t actually latched. It swings open soundlessly under her fist, granting her entrance into the safehouse with no questions asked. 

Oh. All right then.

Liz pushes forward into the house with a shrug, knowing that on any other day, she would have taken pleasure in playfully reprimanding Red for not checking the locks on his doors like a real criminal.

At least, she would have. 

If she and Red hadn’t had sex last night. 

(She really has to stop saying that to herself.)

She walks quietly into the house, wondering which room Red is in. She is just trying to work up the nerve to call out for him when she hears voices coming from what looks like the library down the hall. Thinking that, at this point, she’ll do just about anything to delay talking to Red, she creeps forward to listen.

“And she just left?” That’s Dembe’s voice.

“Yes…” Liz hears Red sigh, sounding defeated. “I was barely awake and she was already out the door. She must regret last night. I didn’t…”

“Raymond,” Dembe says firmly. “Elizabeth is a grown woman, she is responsible for her choices. You did not take advantage of her.” 

Liz nods approvingly from out in the hall. She was simply embarrassed this morning, she thought Red had assumed as much. She wasn’t drunk enough that she didn’t know what was happening last night. She’s not some light weight teenager. Red should know that. Silly man.

“I know, Dembe,” Red mutters. “But we were both so drunk…” Red sounds regretful. Liz frowns, worry quickly filling her. She hadn’t considered that yet. Does Red regret last night?

“Do you regret it, Raymond?” Liz has never been more thankful for Dembe and his keen observational skills.

There is a tense moment of silence, Liz holding her breath out in the hall. 

“No,” Red says finally. “Elizabeth was…exquisite. I just wish she had stayed this morning so we could talk about it, that’s all.”

Liz blushes lightly in the hallway but feels very grateful to Red for not sharing any sordid details of their night of passion, the way a more tactless man might. But she feels better now, relaxed. She and Red are clearly on the same page, they just need to talk about last night. 

(She should have stayed this morning.)

“I’m sure she will be ready to talk soon, Raymond,” Dembe tells him wisely. “Just give her time.” 

Liz smiles, making a mental note to give Dembe a card or a fruit basket or something in thanks. She’s been so silly.

But then she is startled to hear footsteps leaving the library and coming closer and suddenly she is face to face with Dembe himself, who has entered the hallway and is staring at her, thoroughly surprised. 

“Elizabeth,” he says loudly, probably mostly for Red’s benefit. Liz hears a thump from inside the library. Liz can clearly imagine Red running into something as he whirls around in surprise. Even through her panic, she has to stifle a snort. But Dembe seems to be waiting for some sort of explanation. Liz blinks at him.

“Uh, the door was open,” she says stupidly. 

“I see,” Dembe murmurs kindly, no anger in his voice. “Raymond is in there,” he says, a little unnecessarily, nodding to the library. He gives her a look, part amused and part exasperated, and moves quietly past her down the hallway.

Liz brings a hand up and pinches the bridge of her nose. She could have handled that better. 

“Lizzie?” she hears Red call from inside the library. She sighs. Well, here it goes. With a fortifying breath, she rounds the corner and enters the library to see Red standing next to a desk in the far corner, staring at her inscrutably and gnawing on his cheek.

“How much of that did you hear?” he asks stiffly, after a long moment.

“I’m not sure,” murmurs Liz in response. “Enough to know how you feel, I think.”

“I see,” he says, looking at her cautiously. “And how do you feel? Do you regret it?” The last question seems softer and more tentative than the others. Scared.

Well, that won’t do.

“No,” says Liz firmly. “Actually, it was…the best night I’ve had in a while.” She smiles a little crookedly at him and his lips twitch.

“Me too,” he says, chuckling breathily, sounding distinctly relieved. “But that’s to be expected, I suppose.” 

She hums non-committedly at that, just looking at him affectionately. She’d rather not get into Red’s feelings right now, things she knows he has been harboring for a long while. That’s for another day. 

“So, what do we do now?” he asks, his posture relaxing but his tone still a little hesitant.

She smiles. 

“I’m not sure,” she says, pretending to think about it. “But I do know that…I still remember the way you taste.”

She watches as his eyes darken in what she now recognizes as arousal. The thought fills her with excitement. 

“Do you now?” he questions lowly, starting toward her in something that looks deliciously like a prowl. “Because I believe I’m starting to forget.” 

She grins as he gets closer and she takes a few steps meet him in the middle of the room. They stop in front of each other, barely a breath of air between them. “And I think you’d like to remedy that, wouldn’t you, Red?” she draws his nickname out into one teasing syllable, walking her fingers up his chest to lace them around the back of his neck. 

“Aren’t you presumptuous?” he murmurs, his eyes sparkling, hands coming up to wrap around her waist, thumbs rubbing at her sides.

She raises her eyebrows playfully. 

“Tell me I’m wrong,” she dares.

He smirks, his eyes darting down to her lips. 

“Never.”


	25. Chapter 25

**43\. “Are you drunk?”**

_Ring, ring._

“…Hello?”

“Lizzie!”

“…Red?”

“Are you sleeping, Lizzie? Wake up!”

“Red, it’s four in the morning. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Oh, it’s not that late where I am!”

“So, are you gonna apologize for waking me and hang up the phone?”

“What? Lizzie, I can’t hear you, it’s very loud here!”

“Then why did you call me?”

“Because I missed you! I wanted to talk!”

“…Are you drunk?”

“Yes, of course, Lizzie, I thought that was obvious!”

“Well, perhaps it would be to someone who’s working on more than four hours of sleep.”

“Oh, you should sleep more, Lizzie!”

“Believe me, I’m trying.”

“Oh…should I hang up?”

“…No, forget it, I’m awake now.”

“Oh, good! I don’t want to hang up yet!”

“Yes, I can tell. Where are you anyway?”

“Lithuania!”

“Are the booze good there?”

“Oh, yes, Lizzie! You’d love the beer I’m having, it tastes like apples!”

“Interesting. And how many of those have you had?”

“Oh, I lost count an hour ago! One of my associates, Harthur, is buying them for us!”

“Who’s us?”

“Dembe and I! But he’s had a lot less to drink than me, he’s going to drive us back to the hotel soon!”

“Could I talk to Dembe for a second?”

“Don’t you want to talk to me anymore, Lizzie?”

“Yes, I do, Red. Don’t hang up, just give the phone to Dembe for a second.”

“Oh, all right, hang on…”

…

“Hello, Elizabeth. I told him not to call you because you’d be sleeping but he’s had quite a bit to drink.”

“Yeah, I can tell. But it’s fine. I just want to make sure you’re okay to drive.”

“I am sober, Elizabeth. I have only had one beer.” 

“Okay, good. I’m just checking, it’s not like I can drive to Lithuania and pick him up.”

“I understand. He will appreciate your thoughtfulness in the morning.”

“Well, I certainly hope so.”

“Will you indulge him now? He is not usually like this.”

“Sure, it’s not like I have work or anything in the morning.”

“But tomorrow is Thursday.”

“Exactly…Whatever, it’s fine, I’ll talk to him.”

“Thank you, Elizabeth. He wants the phone back now.”

“Put him on, Dembe. And please be careful. Bring him back in one piece, yeah?”

“I will.”

…

“Lizzie? Are you still there?”

“Yes, I’m still here. Is Harthur still buying?”

“Oh, yes! He fell off his stool a minute ago! He’s so funny, Lizzie!”

“Oh yeah? Why don’t you tell me about him?”

“Okay! Well, first of all, he’s got the silliest mustache, it looks like a handlebar! What is that called again, Lizzie?”

“A handlebar mustache?”

“Oh, yes, that’s it! Well, anyway, he’s been telling us the funniest stories about him and his donkey Gerard…”

“Mhm…”


	26. Chapter 26

**33\. “Prove it.” And 38. “You’ve thought about this, haven’t you?”**

Red holds the door open politely for Liz and ushers her through, locking it behind them.

“I’m just saying, there’s a lot of men out there who legitimately don’t know how to kiss.”

“And what exactly do you base this claim on, Lizzie?”

“Evidence.”

Red and Liz are leaving the refurbished warehouse that is acting as Red’s current safehouse. Liz had initially been skeptical of its less than welcoming outside appearance but, when she walked in, she was quite surprised to find Red staying on the top floor which contained the furniture and decoration of a five-star hotel room. He had clearly gone to great lengths to make this a quality hideaway filled with fine things and up to his usual standards, just hidden from the average person by an unsuspecting, shabby exterior. Typical Red. Something completely different on the inside than what you might expect. 

(She tries not to read too much into that. Judging and book covers and all that.)

But, however nice the penthouse might be, the expensive furniture and flat screen TVs stop the minute the door closes behind them. Everything outside the room itself was left in its original state of dilapidation to contribute to the general misleading, unappealing feeling of the building. And the grungy and poorly lit hallways that Red and Liz are currently traversing are no exception. Forced to walk by the lack of a working elevator, they’re heading downwards through the floors to meet Dembe at the car, where he will drive them to interrogate of one Red’s more spineless associates.

And, in the distance between his fifth-floor safe haven and the shady third floor of the building, Red and Liz’s animated discussion has moved from topic to topic, only now settling on kissing. Liz can’t seem to remember how exactly they got here but she has a sneaking suspicion it was by Red’s design. In fact, it has become rather a debate on current kissing culture, something which Liz wasn’t aware she’d given any thought to before today but she apparently has some very strong opinions about. Red, also very opinionated on the topic, seems to be under the impression that any competent man possesses the ability to skillfully kiss a woman. Naturally, Liz is arguing the opposite.

“And how much evidence are we talking about exactly?” Red questions now, looking at her curiously from the corner of his eye as they make their way down the long third-floor corridor.

“None of your business,” sniffs Liz. “But, for the sake of argument, we’ll say a substantial amount.”

“Interesting,” hums Red, and he does sound very interested indeed. “Then I suppose I will concede that some… _lesser men_ can sometimes leave something wanting in their technique.”

“And do you speak from experience as well?” questions Liz sardonically. 

(She is suddenly struck with the mental image of Red kissing a man. Huh.)

“Not exactly, no,” Red says smoothly, sidestepping her obvious implications. “More so from observation. _Lesser men_ often don’t know what to do with a woman and her mouth.” 

Liz feels a wave of heat rush through her at his words, spoken factually enough but in a tone of voice that resonates deep in his chest. Hmm. She tries to recover quickly.

“You keep saying that,” she says as they push open the door to the third-floor stairwell and start down.

“What?”

“’Lesser men’. You don’t consider yourself one of them?”

“Certainly not,” Red huffs, pride coloring his voice. “Age does have its advantages, after all, Lizzie.”

“You’re not a hundred, Red,” Liz rolls her eyes in exasperation.

“Quite right,” Red purrs, turning to lid his eyes at her as they enter the second-floor hallway. “I’m merely a middle-aged man who has _extensive_ kissing experience.”

Liz purses her lips, about to fire back with a witty comeback, when she feels a smirk slowly overtake her features, an idea forming in her mind. 

(This could be either very good or very bad. But she desperately wants to find out which.)

“Oh yeah?” she stops abruptly in the middle of the hallway, watching as Red continues on a few steps before realizing she is no longer with him. He stops and turns, raising his eyebrows questioningly.

“Prove it.” 

She says it with a completely straight face, standing there with her arms crossed, her posture not betraying the excitement she feels inside as she watches Red’s eyes darken. He takes a step forward.

“Are you sure about that, Lizzie?” he murmurs, his voice suddenly quiet and seductive. “Think about what you’re asking, now.” 

Liz rolls eyes at the condescension in his tone, completely at odds with the eager look on his face, and tries to control her own features.

“Do your best, Romeo.”

Red nods to himself and wastes no time in moving in, his form almost predatory in the dark hallway, making her heart pound in anticipation. He pushes into her space, making her take a few steps back until her back gently touches the wall behind her. He brings his arms up slowly to brace them on either side of her. He looks into her eyes.

“A man should start slow and simple,” he whispers, his voice deep and rich and very close to her.

“Oh yeah?” breathes Liz. “And why’s that?”

“To increase the suspense,” he answers simply, dark eyes darting to her lips. “The man should lean in slowly, bringing his lips to softly touch the woman’s, just ghosting over hers, teasing…”

Liz is frozen as Red does just as he says, slowly leaning in, his eyes on hers the whole time, and brushes his soft lips just barely over her own. She has a little trouble breathing then, a quiet gasp stuttering lightly in her chest as he slowly pulls away. She knows Red heard it, as close as he is, and she can see him suppress a smirk, the corners of his lips twitching. 

She tries to regain some footing. 

“And then what?” she is going for bored and careless but she thinks it comes out more breathy and excited. 

Oops.

“The man should continue, doing the same thing a few more times, slowly increasing the length and intensity of each kiss,” he breathes and he leans in again to touch his lips to hers for a few short, teasing seconds before pulling away. Then he does it again and again, increasing in pressure and insistence each time, his lips repeatedly capturing hers in a series of several short, wonderful, sipping kisses. 

Liz is enthralled, meeting him kiss for kiss, finding herself alternately wishing he would stop teasing and then changing her mind and hoping he never stops. She feels him brings a hand up to touch the side of her face and she leans into his palm without thinking, her own hands floating up seemingly without her knowledge to grip the lapels of his coat and pull him closer to her.

_Wow._

He pulls away slowly and she opens her eyes to see his pupils blown wide. Her heart thrills.

Here, with Red gently pressing her against the wall, she is well aware that he has won this particular argument but, of course, she doesn’t want to concede so quickly. He’s far too cocky for that. 

“Is that all?” she mutters, going for disappointed and almost managing this time since the emotion is not at all fake.

(She wants more.)

“No,” he says darkly. “Then you go in for the kill.”

And then Red is surging against her, his mouth capturing hers and opening with a ragged gasp that goes straight through her. He moves the hand that was gently touching her cheek to cup her neck instead, his warm fingers threading through the hair at the base of her neck, using his grip to firmly tug her mouth forward to his. 

Liz can do nothing but happily go along for the ride as he sweeps his tongue into her mouth to meet hers, his head tilting against hers to gain a better angle, her head pressing back against the wall with the force of it. She can’t stop a low moan from escaping her throat as her knees weaken, heat coursing through her, here in the middle of this shady, unromantic hallway.

(She thinks in the back of her mind that the dangerous scenery may just be adding to the thrill. She wonders if he thought of that.) 

As he slows his kisses, bringing them down, pulling back just enough to give her bottom lip a fierce little nip, Liz tries not to whine in disappointment and pull him back in.

Well. It turns out Red _can_ kiss. Very interesting. 

(This was her best idea ever.)

She opens her eyes slowly, reluctantly, to find him already staring at her, looking decidedly smug.

Liz takes a shaky inward breath. “Well, you _have_ thought about this, haven’t you?”

“Oh, extensively,” he murmurs, his voice the deepest she’s ever heard it. She trembles. He smiles at her, his hand caressing her neck tenderly. “Is it that obvious?”

Liz grins at him. 

(She wants to kiss him again.)

“Well,” he says abruptly, suddenly pulling away from her, talking at his normal volume, nonchalantly straightening his coat where she had tugged at it, and generally acting as though he _hadn’t_ just kissed her into oblivion. “I think I’ve proven my point. And we really shouldn’t keep Dembe waiting any longer, should we, Lizzie? Let’s go!”

And he sails off down the hallway, leaving her still leaning weakly against the wall where he left her, gaping after him. 

Is he kidding?

Well, she thinks as she pushes unsteadily off the wall and tries to fix her hair, hurrying after him before he can disappear through the door to the second-story stairwell. She’s pretty sure that this day will go down in infamy as her best first kiss with anyone. Not that she’ll tell Red that. He doesn’t need the ego boost. But she’s certain of one other thing as well.

They’ll definitely be doing this again.


	27. Chapter 27

**16\. “I can explain.” And 7. “Just trust me.”**

Red and Liz leap over the bar, knocking shot glasses aside carelessly as they go, ducking down behind the thick wood for cover as bullets rain around them. They hit the floor at the same time with a heavy crash, temporarily safe from their enemies on the other side, who are out for blood. Liz lets out an angry huff and turns to Red, who is looking decidedly sheepish.

“Are you serious?” she demands.

“I can explain!” he pleads, trying to placate her.

“Well, I certainly hope so!” snaps Liz. “It’s not every day I find myself in the middle of a saloon shootout with some trigger-happy thugs who think we’re in a crappy Western movie! Who the hell are these people?”

“Some…rather disgruntled associates of mine,” Red mutters, a little reluctantly, suddenly very interested in a non-existent scratch on the butt of his handgun.

“Disgruntled? Really? That’s the word you’re going with?” A stray bullet from one of Red’s “associates” shatters a bottle of whiskey on the counter above Liz’s head and Red quickly throws an arm over her face to shield her from the falling glass.

“Don’t worry, Lizzie, I’ll handle this,” he says with a confidence Liz is instantly skeptical of.

He moves onto his hands and knees, clearly preparing to stand up. 

“What the hell are you doing?!” she hisses, tugging at the sleeve of his suit jacket urgently, trying to pull him back down. “You can’t go up there, they’ll kill you!” 

“Just trust me, Lizzie, I know these men. I’ll get us out of here,” he assures her, patting her hand in a would-be soothing manner. 

Liz scowls but crosses her arms and sits back to watch. He got them into this mess so, as far as she’s concerned, he can sure as hell get them out.

He winks at her before reaching up to wave his gun above the bar in a non-threatening manner.

“Gentleman!” he calls out cheerfully. “Gentleman, please, how about we give our firearms a rest and settle this little kerfuffle like adults, hmm?”

Liz hears the hail of bullets cease momentarily and Red smiles at her in success before standing up and casually tossing his loaded pistol over the bar in a gesture of truce.

He looks down at her.

“See, Lizzie? I told you I could handle –”

Liz reaches up and yanks on the edge of Red’s suit jacket, jerking him back down behind the bar a second before the shooting starts up again with whoops and yells from the gunman, now in possession of Red’s only weapon.

She rolls her eyes. Why does she have to do everything herself?

* * *

Liz stomps out of the saloon twenty minutes later with a very guilty-looking Red in tow, all the gunmen inside, safely subdued and secured. She stops in the dusty, deserted street and turns around abruptly to face him, throwing his sacrificed gun at him with a nasty look and one short sentence.

“I’m never going out for a drink with you again.”


End file.
